


Mango

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Tiny Bit of Angstyness, Darker than orignally planned, Eventual Romance, Eventually Sherlock Sees The Light, F/M, Happy Ending, Molly Changes, Okay more than a bit of anstyness, Post TAB, Sherlock Is An Ass Butt, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slightly smutty at the end, So are summaries, Tags are a bitch, There's still a happy ending I promise!, These characters are driving me crazy!, Violence, and maybe more smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is different, and it's driving Sherlock crazy. How can he stop her? What if he can't?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Molly Flies

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to their respective creators; I own nothing. I claim nothing, except that I love messing around with their creations. Thank you Bubby for checking over my mess; all mistakes are mine and mine alone. In other words, I do own any and all of the mistakes contained herein, none of which have anything to do with the creators/owners of the characters, or with Bubby, who is a total sweetheart. I would include the creators of the characters in the "sweetheart" category, but one of them is dead and I don't know if the others are sweethearts or not. Yet.
> 
> If you like this little story, please leave a comment. I love hearing from people! If you didn't like it, please leave a comment and tell me why. We can argue about it. :D

The changes were subtle at first. Nothing drastic. The hair was the first change but it was a small, simple difference. Some noticed it was not the same as before but they were hard pressed to say exactly what it was. A slightly brighter color, perhaps? More...bounce? Different styles?

Next came the face. This time the change, although again subtle, was more noticeable, especially the eyes. Already very pretty, they were somehow greatly enhanced - the color made richer, deeper - though exactly how it was done was not evident. There also seemed to be more sparkle in them than before. Nothing drastic had been done, but the results were dramatic. The lips were fuller, with more color and shine; were there more smiles now? Suddenly there were cheekbones, which of course had been there all along but not many had paid attention to them. Now they drew the eye to the underlying architecture of the face, which was indeed quite lovely.

And then the most dramatic change of all, which, although not fancy or extreme, was noticed by everyone: The wardrobe. Plain comfy shoes gave way to comfy shoes with style. Baggy, plain slacks and trousers morphed into lovely tweeds and colors, ones that fit - and happened to show off quite an attractive bum and a tiny little waist. Frumpy frilly or cutesy shirts and blouses, and oversized, shapeless jumpers magically transformed into luxurious silks, wools, and linens, all immaculately tailored, and often there were matching jackets to boot. There were simple but exquisite earrings and necklaces (nothing for the hands at work - that wouldn’t do at all), the occasional pin or brooch.

All in all, the new Molly Hooper was, by consensus, quite beautiful. There were some who found her stunning. Another surprise: Molly took all the attention in stride, thanking people for each compliment graciously, but then returning to business without making much of it. She wasn’t oblivious to the effect; she just didn’t seem to think it was worth a lot of hullaballoo.

None of this happened overnight, of course. It took several months. It was only at the end of that time that people sat up and took it all in, and began wondering exactly what it was she had done. 

Molly wasn’t telling. 

There was one person, however, that the changes unsettled greatly, who noticed right away and was not happy about it at all. Sherlock saw it the very first day - there were gentle highlights in her hair, and it had been cut slightly, though he couldn’t say how. He just saw that when she pulled it back there were more not-so-stray wisps and curlicues around her face and neck - which he grudgingly admitted were actually-sort-of-maybe-a-little-more-tiny-bit attractive - but he couldn’t come up with a logical reason why she would do such a thing. He chose not to remark on it; he didn’t want to encourage her in that direction.

When the face changed, he was livid. He refused to speak to her, barely even glanced at her. First the eyes, then the mouth and then those cheekbones...really, what on earth did she think she was doing? Had she enrolled in clown college? Was she secretly planning on changing professions and becoming one of those horrid presenters on the telly (who may as well be clowns, he thought, and calling that a ‘profession’ was venturing into the surreal.) No, no. This would not do. He would simply have to discourage her from any further forays into the realm of “beauty products”, emphasize to her how _useless_ and _silly_ it all was, and get her to stop. 

His planned attack, however, was cut short when she turned to him and gazed up at him with the eyes, the ones that had been so subtly and beautifully enhanced, the ones that now seemed a thousand miles deep and so full of mystery and promise…

He ran. He turned and ran out of the building, away from this siren...this... this _succubus_ that his pathologist had become. 

All that night he paced and fumed and raged. He thought of dozens of cutting, razor-sharp remarks that would point up the insanity of this whole charade, this _spectacle_ she was making of herself. But he kept getting interrupted by images, images that needed descriptions - descriptions that left him feeling dizzy and helpless and totally unlike himself. Which in turn fueled his indignation and started the whole cycle over again. By morning he was exhausted, and nowhere nearer a solution to his Molly problem.

Molly didn’t see it as a problem. When he had virtually charged through the door of the lab, calling her name in a stentorian voice that quite literally demanded attention (from everyone, not just Molly), she had merely turned to him, looked him in the eye, and waited. When he turned and ran out the door without another word to her, she assumed that he had suddenly remembered something important that needed his immediate consideration, shrugged, and went about her business. She gave it no more thought; he was always doing things like that. 

By the time the wardrobe transmogrification was done, Sherlock had gone into hiding. Little by little he had made Molly Hooper his sole focus. He lurked. He slinked. He followed her around and watched her with a diligence that would have put MI6 to shame (not that that would be so terribly difficult), all without her notice. He did this for weeks. 

He was completely baffled. Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, one of the most brilliant men on the planet (personally, he thought the second most brilliant, outdone only by his elder brother Mycroft, and occasionally he even questioned that) could come up with no earthly reason for this absolute debacle Molly Hooper had made of herself. 

At first he had thought she was trying to get more of his attention (which struck him as odd since he paid much more attention to her than he did to anyone else - ever.) When she failed at that, he fully expected her to abandon this juvenile self-improvement project and get back to herself. When she went further with the changes, he decided she was trying to attract the attention of another male, in order to make him jealous, a trick she had tried before with no results - at least none to speak of, although he _might_ have made a point of deducing said males to the brink of abject terror, all in the name of protecting his pathologist from predators. She did indeed draw lots of attention from other males, and Sherlock was indeed jealous. Not jealous in the ordinary sense, of course. He had no interest in Molly that way. He was jealous of the _time_ she gave anyone else, but especially if the anyone else was male - simply because the males always seemed to want _more_ of her time. He needed her for his work, he couldn’t let her fritter away her time with idiots.

As he watched her through all these changes, he began to notice other, even more subtle changes in her that he couldn’t explain. She walked differently. He put that down to her new shoes, which, though quite attractive, were completely unsuitable for her since they obviously threw her spine out of alignment and made her walk funny. The way she spoke had also altered: instead of her sweet, stammering squeak, her voice had modulated down several notes, and had gained in volume. The stammer was missing completely. Though it was pleasant, it made him uncomfortable - sultry was not Molly Hooper. Sultry had absolutely _no_ _business_ being Molly Hooper!

Dealing with Molly’s alterations was taking its toll on Sherlock. He began to lose interest in cases that he should have leapt at. He didn’t want to be bothered by petty murders, robberies, abductions. He was consumed with figuring out why Molly had become someone other than herself. There had to be a logical reason why a perfectly fine female like Molly Hooper, with her flourishing career, her exciting work with him (and John, sometimes, and occasionally Scotland Yard and Gordon) - a perfectly _functional_ woman - would go and mess herself up with all this nonsense. None of these...enhancements...would make her a better pathologist. None of them would enhance her _work -_ orhelp _him -_ in any way whatsoever. So what was the point? Try as he would, he simply could not see one.

Usually when women went on binges such as this (most often only losing weight and/or dyeing their hair, although some of them went completely mad and added/subtracted to or from their bodies via surgery, of all things), there was a man involved. Or they were hoping to _get_ a man involved, with _them_. Surely Molly didn’t believe that because of these alterations in her appearance, in her demeanor, some moronic Prince Charming was going to come gallumphing up on a white nag and whisk her off to the Enchanted Dungeon where she would end up with a number of squalling brats, a monstrous harpy of a mother-in-law, a drunken, philandering Prince C (who never helped with dungeon work or squalling brats), and - probably very quickly - forty extra pounds, not to mention the unwanted attentions of a lecherous, rotund, and probably wart-covered father-in-law…

Sherlock could easily produce these terrifying scenarios of domestic bliss in his head, making himself nauseated and head-achey, so he used them sparingly. Most of the time, when he wasn’t spying on her, he contented himself with muttering and rolling his eyes at imagined conversations, in which he kept trying to explain to her that this behavior was completely demented and she had better stop it right now. 

After one particularly dreadful night, filled with headaches and nausea, he decided the best course of action was non-action; he decided to stay away from her, to dismiss her idiocy from his mind completely. He managed three whole days before it occurred to him that without his watchful eye she would quickly degenerate into someone who posed nude for men’s magazines (or would begin to destroy what was left of English civilization via affairs with upper level government officials, which ordinarily he would enjoy watching but..this was _Molly_ , for God’s sake!) and he flew to Bart’s in a frenzy to take up his secret vigil again. 

This time, however, he got yet another surprise.

Molly wasn’t there.

*****

“Tell me where she is!”

Mike Stamford shook his head and eyed Sherlock warily. 

“I don’t know where she is. She’s taken a leave of absence and we haven’t heard a word from her. Sorry.”

*

Mycroft tilted his head back, frowned at Sherlock, and sniffed as he looked down his nose. 

“How would I know where she is? We’ve no reason to keep track of her now that the Magnussen and Moriarty messes are done with. Go away.”

*

John simply stared at him, then shook his head.

“Don’t you have cases to work on? She’s gone. Let it go. Bit late to worry about her now, isn’t it?”

Sherlock balled his fist, then decided it wasn’t worth injury to his knuckles just for the satisfaction of punching John in the face - although he reserved the right to change his mind at any time.

Sherlock called her sister, her mother, her friend Meena, her sort-of-friend Olivia - everyone he could think of that she had ever mentioned to him. No one knew where she had gone, or if they knew they had developed some advanced defense against being deduced because he could get no information from any of them. 

“This is ridiculous!” he huffed. “Think! Where would she have gone?” 

He tried to remember if he had ever heard her talk about a holiday, a trip she dreamed of taking, some special place she longed to visit and found that area in his mind palace completely empty. If she had mentioned anything along those lines, he had deleted it. There was no data, not one iota of information. He screamed at a tiny niggling voice in there, no doubt left over from a piddly argument with her in the past that had hidden from his deletions. 

“I did pay attention! I know everything there is to know about her! I always...paid attention to her…”

Except he didn’t. Like Mrs. Hudson, Molly had had a mute button, which he frequently used when he wanted to think about something other than what she was saying in her soft little voice. It occurred to him now that he may have over-used the mute button on her. Perhaps he had missed something important, although to be fair, much of the time she spoke about things that had no relevance to anything he needed, and there was only so much attention he could spare. How was he to know that some of her trivia might prove to be important to him in the future? 

This line of thinking made him hurt somewhere inside, so he dismissed it as serving no purpose, and instead embarked on a new plan of action. He checked plane, train, and bus schedules. He checked cruise lines. He called hotels, motels, inns, bed and breakfasts. There were no records of her anywhere. No one had seen her. 

Since the information he had stored on her mostly had to do with her personal appearance and simple likes and dislikes, coming up with an alias she might have used was also fruitless. Back to the friends and relatives, with the same results: nothing. 

Another week went by and Sherlock was beginning to think he had made another terrible mistake. Molly was gone. She had voluntarily deserted him - walked away from the life she had made here, which, of course, was mostly him. 

He stared out the window of his very silent and empty flat and pondered what he was experiencing. It was worse than boredom. Worse than any dullness, incompetence, complacent idiocy - worse than anything he had ever encountered. 

He was completely numb except for a cold, achy lump in his chest. 

He had lost her. His Molly was gone for good. 


	2. Molly Lands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly lands safely, but Sherlock crashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh noes!! We've turned all serious! But don't worry, things will go back the way they were in the beginning very soon. I promise. *crosses fingers behind back* Really, it's not going to stay this way. *whispers* I don't think...
> 
> Thank you Bubby for your help and for not smacking me because it turned out this way. As before, I own nothing, none of these weird characters belong to me, I'm just torturing them for fun...I mean, I'm just playing with them. I make many mistakes and I'm not afraid to use them. 
> 
> Please comment, review, rant, laugh hysterically, whatever in the little box down there at the bottom. You never know, it might spur me to write something decent. :\

The fragrant breeze whispered across her skin, and drew gentle airy fingers through her hair. Molly raised her arms and stretched, with a little ahh of satisfaction, then settled back in the chaise and smiled. 

The slender man beside her also smiled. He enjoyed her languid pleasure in the sun, took pride in being with her. She had changed but not changed. Outwardly, she appeared chic and together. Inside, he knew, she was the same sweet, awkward, loveable Molly Hooper: brainy misfit, near genius sweetheart, gentle slicer of cadavers. He knew how much effort she had put into her outer transformation; he was very much a part of that and he loved it. 

Molly turned her head and smiled at her partner in the sublime. “Is there any of that wine left?” 

Sean reached down into the small bucket beside his own chaise. The bucket had a short time ago been filled with ice, but now overflowed with cool water. He pulled the pale green bottle up and checked the contents. 

“There’s a bit left.” He popped out the cork and handed the bottle to Molly, who turned it up and greedily poured the last few swallows into her mouth. 

“What is it about being by the sea that makes my mouth so dry?” she complained, handing the now empty bottle back to Sean. 

Sean chuckled as he slid the bottle back into the bucket. 

“I have no idea, my love. I’m not sure it does that to anyone else. You may be unique in that, as you are in so many other things.” 

Molly laughed. It had taken her a long time to get used to Sean’s manner, the way he spoke to her. She was not used to being constantly praised and complimented. At first it had made her blush and stammer, but as time went on and she made more and more changes, she learned to accept it - and him - without feeling that she didn’t deserve it. She actually learned to be gracious when other people offered a compliment, learned to say a soft thank you and let that be it. Sean had taught her so many, many things.

“So, what are we doing this evening?” Molly left all their activities up to Sean in this gorgeous exotic place; she had no idea where even to begin looking for things to do, places to eat, sites to see. She never dreamed she would be here. 

“I thought we might have a quiet evening in. I’ll make dinner, we can put on some music and...just talk, dance a little, relax.”

“If I get any more relaxed I’ll just melt away.” She turned her head, and studied him in the late afternoon light. He was so beautiful. His tanned body was lean but fit, with well-defined muscles. His swim trunks rode low on his hips, his long legs were splayed on the chaise. With his head back, the long column of his throat was exposed and he looked paradoxically extremely fragile and immensely strong and masculine all at the same time. 

“I think an evening in would be splendid,” she said, and turned her face back to the lowering sun, closing her eyes and smiling to herself.

*****

Mrs. Hudson motioned John into her flat before letting him start up the stairs. 

“Just a word first,” she whispered. 

John followed her through the door and stood in the tiny hall as she quietly shut the door. She turned to him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, eyes darting everywhere before finally resting on his face. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call or what to do.” She was still whispering. “I know you have your hands full with the baby and all…”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Hudson. Tell me what’s going on?” 

“It’s just...I’m so worried about him. He’s hardly eating anything anymore, he never goes out, never talks to anyone, and I’m so afraid...well, you know...I just don’t know how to get through to him! It’s not like before, he’s not playing his violin, he’s not...I don’t know, not thinking even! It’s just that it’s been so long this time and he’s...not himself at all...” Her voice trailed off and she looked at him, her eyes pleading for help.

John frowned and looked down for a moment, then touched her gently on her arm, reassuring her. She was not prone to hysterics, despite what some people thought. She wouldn’t have called him unless she seriously thought something was wrong. 

He hadn’t seen Sherlock in months, had thought things were rolling along the way they always did with him. He’d been so preoccupied with the baby and his job he honestly hadn’t given much thought to Sherlock at all. He did feel a twinge of guilt at this; after all, Sherlock was his friend - had been his best friend. He hadn’t meant to neglect Sherlock but his life got in the way so much now. There were a lot of things that just went by the wayside. 

He patted Mrs. Hudson’s arm again. “I’ll look into it. It’s probably nothing much, you know what he’s like. He’s Sherlock.” 

With a wry smile, he pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. He paused a moment, looking up those stairs, feeling the stirrings of nostalgia yet again, as he often had in the months before life had snatched him up and pulled him away. Not that he would change anything. He’d been given so much, had a multitude of things he was grateful for - and if he missed the excitement of solving cases, the excitement of raising his daughter and putting together a different life more than made up for it. 

He took a deep breath and went up the stairs to 221B.

*****

Dinner was a simple mix of vegetables in a slightly tangy sauce, poured over some rice noodles and accompanied by another bottle of wine and a slice of mocha almond dacquoise for dessert. The dacquoise was brought home from the fantastic, elegant French restaurant where they had eaten the night before. 

Molly licked the last of the buttercream from her fork and sighed. 

“Sean, if you keep feeding me like this, I won’t be able to fit into anything I own. I’ll be as big as a house!” She frowned at him, then giggled. 

Sean smiled at her. His stunning deep green eyes, framed in their long dark lashes, sparkled with the reflected light from the candles on the table. 

“You are my tiny waif princess and you’ll never gain an ounce no matter how much you eat.” 

Molly dimpled at him, her cheeks flushing, a beautiful rose underneath her sun-browned skin. She picked up her glass and floated over to the balcony, where the night breeze, redolent with the mixed scents of forest and sea wafted in. The silk of her caftan was heavenly against her skin, and she thought again how lucky she was. Sean had changed her life so drastically. She could hardly remember the way it had been. When she thought about that time, all she seemed to be able to recall was a pair of shocking blue-green eyes and a deep, rich voice...She shook her head and turned back to the large open area that passed for a lounge in this strange, beautiful house. She couldn’t think about him, even now. Especially now. 

Sean put the last dish into the sink and called to her over his shoulder. “Put some music on. I’m making coffee.” He glanced at her, saw her dreamy expression, knew exactly what she was thinking about. He watched her cross the room, noting how gracefully she walked, how all her movements were measured and deliberate. A drop of sadness, and pride, and love filled him as he turned back to making the coffee. He was not jealous; but he knew how she felt about who she had left behind, knew that it was never going to change, and that it made her - occasionally, still - unhappy. He never wanted her to be unhappy. I’m going to have to do something about it, he thought, and sighed as he measured the coffee into the conical filters.

*****

“Sherlock? Are you here?” John felt a little odd asking. The door was closed but not locked. Before he walked in, he tapped a few times; he didn’t feel like he could just barge in anymore. 

The room was dim, a single small lamp burning on the desk. Even the kitchen was dark. He called again, softly, then saw the silhouette in the chair, perched on the back instead of the seat. The sight made his mouth quirk in a half-smile, memories pushing to the front of his mind now that he was here. 

“Hello John. Mrs. Hudson called you, did she? I thought she might. Sorry.” Sherlock’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, uninflected. 

John glanced around the room as he entered and made his way towards the chairs. He noticed that “his” was still in its old place. Nothing much had changed about the flat, that he could see anyway. He sat down in his chair, crossed his legs, elbows resting on the chair arms. 

“She’s worried about you.”

There was no sniff of disdain, no smart arse remark in reply. 

“So. What’s been going on?” John’s voice was even, serious, concerned. It didn’t take much to see that that something was very ‘not right’ here. 

Sherlock slid down onto the seat of the chair, crossed his legs. John could see that he was barefoot, his light colored shirt was untucked. He had several days growth of beard, his curls - always messy - were oily and matted to his head. He looked like he had just come off a week’s bender, a very bad one. 

Sherlock remained silent. His face was still, expressionless. But there was something...something about the eyes…

John might have been angry if he hadn’t been so worried. He was sure Sherlock was using again, but it wasn’t just using that was making him this way. Something had happened, something had gotten to him. John couldn’t imagine what it was that would affect Sherlock so profoundly.

“Can you tell me what’s happened?” John tried to keep his voice neutral. 

Sherlock turned his face away, seemed to be examining the fireplace mantel. When he spoke his voice was still that same soft, uninflected tone. 

“How did you know you were in love with Mary?”

“I’m sorry, what?” John stared at Sherlock, completely caught off guard by this turn. 

“How did you know you were in love with Mary?” Sherlock repeated the question, voice unchanged, now staring fixedly at John.

John took a deep breath, trying to think, leaned forward in his chair. 

“Sherlock...look, I know something isn’t right here. You’re not yourself. Mrs. Hudson said this has been going on for months. Are you using? Is that what’s happened? She’s worried sick and right now I’m pretty worried myself. Talk to me. You look like hell. This is not you!” 

At this, the side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked in that old familiar almost smile. But his voice stayed the same.

“Oh but it is me, John. This is who I am. This is all of me right in front of you. All that’s left, anyway. The rest is...somewhere else. I don’t know where.” 

John exhaled forcefully, sat back in his chair. I’m going to need some help on this, he thought, and wondered whether he should call Mary or Mycroft first. Surely Mycroft knew what was happening; he watched Sherlock like a hawk. But if he knew, why hadn’t he done something? Gotten Sherlock off to a doctor or hospital or...something...anything! And Mary...he didn’t want to bother her with this, not yet. She had her hands full already. What the hell am I supposed to do, he wondered, trying not to look as shocked as he felt. What did Sherlock mean, somewhere else? He leaned forward again, clasped his hands between his knees. 

“Okay. You’re going to have to explain that last to me. What do you mean the rest of you is somewhere else?”

“She took it with her. The only good part of me, the best of me. She took it and I don’t know where. So this is all that’s left.” 

A glimmer of understanding began to take shape in John’s head. There was only one “she” that Sherlock could possibly mean, only one woman who had been a regular in Sherlock’s life that wasn’t there anymore. 

Molly Hooper. 

John remembered how Sherlock had searched for her when she left, demanding to know where she went, pestering everyone with questions for weeks on end. John had to admit it was mysterious, her disappearing suddenly that way. Mike Stamford didn’t think it was anything to worry about. John and he had had lunch not too long after she left and said she simply went on sabbatical and didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Mike had been floored at the changes in her and figured this time away was just one more. John had noticed the few times he had seen her in the months before she disappeared that she was different. She seemed more...sure of herself, and she had looked terrific. He had thought perhaps she was just moving on, finally getting over her fixation on Sherlock. 

John wondered just how deep Sherlock’s affection for Molly went, and how long it had been there - or if Sherlock had even been aware of how attached he was to her. There was a time he might have been amused at this turn of events. But looking at Sherlock now, in the condition he was in, all he felt was worry and sadness. However it came about, Sherlock was miserable, he was suffering. 

“Sherlock, are you saying that this is all because of Molly Hooper? That she’s the reason, or rather her going away is the reason, that you’re like this?” 

Sherlock leaned forward then, and John could see his face clearly. 

“Oh,” John said softly. “I’m...it’s…” He stopped and sat back in his chair, completely at a loss. 

Sherlock’s face had been wet with tears.


	3. Molly Learns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly learns more about love; Sherlock learns about Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. They did it. Characters hijacked my story and ran off with it, made it do what they wanted and ignored me. I'm sorry. They're out of control, incorrigible, there's nothing I can do. 
> 
> Whatever. I don't own them (thank god) and I don't claim them. Bubby deserted me and didn't look this over, so be kind please, it will be full of mistakes which I DO own and claim. 
> 
> Please comment; I am wounded by these delinquent characters and need mucho support. Thank you. *sob*

After coffee and Grand Marnier, and more cognac with no coffee, the conversation rambled back and forth, intimate and personal. Lowered inhibitions promoted emotional truths, oozed them out despite intellectual protest - intellect being the weaker component when one is slightly drunk on a bottle of wine and a bottle of cognac. Sean and Molly were not strangers to emotional exchanges; their relationship was based on them. But this one was different. 

Molly sat with her back sunk deep into the plush sofa cushions, feet up on the coffee table. Sean’s lean form was stretched out beside her on the sofa, his head on Molly’s lap. 

“Molly, my love, my fair sweetness. We need to talk.”

Molly groaned and dropped her head back. 

“I thought we _were_ talking.”

“Yes, we were, but I need to change the subject.” 

Sean sat up, ran his hands through his thick dark hair, and turned to face Molly. 

“I’m beginning to feel a bit guilty.” 

Molly rolled her head, looked at Sean as if she expected him to tell her very bad news. The fact that Sean had never ever told her anything remotely bad was completely lost in the slight alcohol haze that drifted through her brain. 

She sat up and turned towards him, looking longingly at the empty cognac bottle on the table as she did so. She sighed deeply, realizing that the lovely bottle was not going to rescue her, and tried to look serious and open as she focused on Sean. 

“I know you’re not that drunk, my love. Please listen. This is important.” Sean gave her a little smile, and took her hand, smoothing his fingers over the back. Molly watched him carefully, slightly distracted by his incredible deep jade eyes, and the softness of his fingers on her hand. 

“I know that when we left London, you left more than just a job and a flat and a few friends. You left your family - good or bad, they _are_ your family. But I also know that you left something else there, something that you try to pretend doesn’t exist, but that has an image that is lodged in here (he pointed to her chest) so deep nothing will ever touch it. Not me, not this place, not anyone or anything else you might find in this life.”

He raised his hand when she opened her mouth to protest this, then placed it alongside her cheek, stroking with the backs of his fingers. 

“You know I love you. That’s why I’m saying this. You are my friend. My very best, most precious friend and I love you more than anything. But what you left in London is making you unhappy. I see it in you from time to time, I see you looking sad when you think I’m not watching.” 

Molly gave him a small, wistful smile at hearing those familiar words, then dropped her eyes. 

“I’m not unhappy, Sean. Really. I’m not. It’s just...I think it’s because it was never finished. I never got any closure on the whole situation.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “Oh, my love. Don’t you know that for the heart, once it’s opened, there is no closure? I’ve spent all these months with you and I’ve seen you bloom like a rare exotic flower, watched you dance and sing with joy. All of it existed in you before I came along, it was just hidden. What do you think would have happened if you’d unleashed all this and stayed there?” 

Her response was a small choked laugh. “All hell would have broken loose. They’d probably have institutionalized me.” She leaned back against the sofa cushions, her head pillowed on her arm. “What do you think would have happened?”

“I think...I think we should go home and find out.” He grinned at her. “I would love to see all hell break loose and I promise if they lock you up I will get you out immediately. I also think that what you left back there just might be jarred into action - and I hope, I sincerely hope that you’re ready for that.”

There was laughter in her eyes, but there was also trepidation. 

“I thought I was ready years ago. Thinking back on it now, I wonder. I’m not sure I could have handled it well no matter how much I thought I wanted it. Maybe...maybe now I could. But what if he doesn’t want me? I never got much encouragement from him.”

Sean smiled at her, a hint of devious imp lurking in the corners of his mouth. 

“Let’s go and see.”

*****

Mary had pulled John’s chair closer to Sherlock’s and now she leaned forward and took Sherlock’s hand in hers. John paced slowly around the room with Willa asleep on his shoulder. 

“Sherlock, I think it’s time you started talking.” 

Sherlock still sat leaning forward in his chair, the way he’d been sitting since John had asked him about Molly. He seemed unable or unwilling to move, had not said another word. 

John had called Mary for help, not knowing what exactly she could do, but hoping she might at least have some suggestions.

Mary came immediately, handed Willa over to John, and set about making some tea. The kitchen was a complete disaster, but she managed to find the kettle and three cups that weren’t broken or full of awful smelling gunk. When the tea was ready she carried the cups into the lounge and set them on the table next to John’s chair. 

At first Mary simply sat in front of Sherlock, sipping her tea, not saying anything, just observing. Sherlock showed no interest in the tea. Other than the tears that occasionally trailed down his face, he was practically catatonic - though she’d never seen a catatonic sitting upright before. 

Now, as she leaned forward and took his hand, and told him it was time to speak, she saw that he was indeed aware of what was going on around him. He simply chose not to interact with any of it. 

Mary bit her bottom lip and frowned. She glanced at John, then sat back and gazed at Sherlock, trying to gauge whether or not the bomb she could drop would be too much for Sherlock - or John, for that matter - to handle. She took a deep breath, leaned forward again, and said, very softly, “Sherlock, I know where she is.”

John stopped pacing and swung around to stare at her, wondering if he’d heard her right. 

Sherlock raised his head and what Mary saw in his eyes chilled her through. God, what have I done, she thought, as she quickly sat back in the chair. She fully expected him to lunge at her, go for her throat. In his weakened state she felt sure she could handle him, but she prayed she wouldn’t have to try. 

But he remained very still, his eyes locked on hers. He licked his lips and, his voice hoarse, simply said, “Where?” 

Mary glanced up at John, who had come to stand by the arm of the chair and was looking down at her, his eyes wide and incredulous. She looked back at Sherlock, whose eyes had not left hers for a second. 

“She’s been in Bali. With a friend.”

Sherlock remained motionless. 

John, careful not to wake the baby, whispered, “Mary...how...when did...you _knew_?”

Mary pressed her lips together, frowned and looked at John, shaking her head: _not now_! 

Sherlock very very slowly leaned back in his chair, his gaze still locked on Mary’s face. When he spoke, despite the hoarseness of his voice, Mary shivered. He was coiled like a snake, could strike in an instant. Without taking her eyes off Sherlock, Mary motioned with her hand for John to move away from her with the baby. John immediately backed away, his eyes darting between Mary and Sherlock, wondering if he dared put Willa on the sofa so that he could help Mary if she needed him. 

“Tell me who she’s with.” The words were ice over steel. 

“She’s with a friend, someone she met here. Someone she knew for months before she went away. They’ve been living in his house in Bali since she left, flew there in his private jet.” Only the bare details. 

Sherlock wasn’t going to let it go. “Tell me his name.”

“No. I don’t know his name. I wouldn’t tell you if I did know.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. Mary tensed, ready to defend herself, John and the baby if necessary. But Sherlock didn’t move. He only stared at her with those electric eyes. 

This tableau lasted for several minutes. Mary was beginning to think they were past danger, when Sherlock moved. He flowed to his feet in one fluid motion and Mary sprung up to meet him. They were perhaps a foot apart, Sherlock nearly snarling, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard. Mary met him calmly, in a loose fighter’s stance. She would not back down. 

John was paralysed. His one thought was to protect the baby, but...then, strangely, came the thought, “He would never risk hurting Willa!” and he found himself moving towards Mary and Sherlock, slowly, carefully, but unafraid.

“Sherlock,” John said. “Whatever you’re planning to do, could you wait until Willa wakes up?”

Mary’s heart was pounding wildly with alarm. _What the hell did he think he was doing!_ But she couldn’t risk looking away from Sherlock even for an instant. 

Miraculously, Sherlock blinked rapidly several times. His mouth dropped open and he took a deep shuddering breath, unclenched his hands. He closed his eyes, turned away from Mary and stood leaning against the fireplace mantel, his head bowed, his arms stretched to the sides, hands gripping the the wooden mantel as if he would fracture it with his fingers. 

John and Mary looked at each other, each nearly gasping in relief. Willa hadn’t stirred since they’d arrived. 

*****

The weather was mild when the jet touched down in London, and Molly was grateful it wasn’t raining. She had been sorry to leave the strange, beautiful house in Bali, but now she was anxious to get back into the city. She had no idea what she would find, but she had lost many of her old fears, ones that had held her back from fully joining in on life in this wonderful place. She thought if it had been raining, she might have been a little sad. London could be sad in the rain.

Sean was excited. He could barely sit still on the plane, was practically bouncing in his seat when the jet hit the runway. Molly laughed at him but his excitement was contagious. She looked out the window, her heart racing with eagerness.

He had booked them a suite at the Milestone, where he always stayed in the city, saying the ambiance suited him best. For all his exuberance at times, he liked being comfortable, liked having a familiar place where he could escape and recoup his energy. Molly had never been near the hotel. She would have been too intimidated by it before. Now she couldn’t wait to get there.

Sean wanted to rent a car, but Molly insisted they take a cab. “If I’m going to be here I may as well jump in and I’ll be taking cabs, not rentals.”

In the cab, Sean watched Molly as she stared out the windows, craning her neck to see as much as she could. He loved to see her excited. She was so lovely when she smiled, practically glowing. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, her laugh was full, pulled from deep inside her. And as he watched her, he prayed he hadn’t made a mistake bringing her back here, knowing what she was going to face. 

They checked into the hotel then immediately dashed out again, Molly claiming that she was famished. She didn’t want a fancy meal, she wanted fish and chips and she wanted to eat it standing on the street, watching people. Sean laughed, let her lead him along, stood with a handful of chips while Molly stuffed herself. She was chattering away with her mouth half full when she suddenly stopped and stared across the street. She swallowed and licked her lips and he watched the shadow fall across her, darkening her like a blanket tossed over a light.

Sean was just about to ask her what was wrong, when she shivered and blinked, and turned to him. 

“I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I don’t know what came over me. I thought I saw...well, never mind. It was nothing.” She gave him a quick smile and grabbed his hand, pulled him along. “Let’s walk. It’s been ages since we’ve been able to really walk anywhere.”

*****

Sherlock’s clothes were looser on him than before. He stared at himself in the mirror, wished he looked healthier - but then shrugged. He would bounce back quickly once he saw her again, once they....did whatever it was they were supposed to do. 

Sherlock still had no idea how to go about this. He only knew he had to see her, had to talk to her, had to find out if she still cared for him at all. He didn’t give a thought to what would happen after that - or what would happen if she turned away from him. 

He still struggled with the knowledge that Mary had withheld the information about Molly from everyone. He understood promises. He understood that Mary hadn’t known how he felt about Molly. No one had known, least of all himself. Understanding these things didn’t do much to alleviate the anger. Though he tried to be civil, he wondered if he would ever feel the same about Mary. They had been friends, close friends he thought. Now he didn’t know.

* 

Mary had finally let Sherlock read the letter Molly had left with her. It told Mary where Molly was and what to do if there was an emergency involving the family. Molly had sworn Mary to secrecy, stressed how important it was that she be left alone, that no one - absolutely no one - was to know where she had gone or with whom. Mary had reluctantly agreed, although she thought she understood Molly’s reasoning. What Mary hadn’t counted on was Sherlock’s reaction to Molly’s absence from his life. She knew Molly was important to Sherlock, but she, like everyone else, had assumed it was either selfish possessiveness because he wanted her help, or just friendship at most. Between the two of them, Molly and Sherlock had managed to fool everybody - apparently even themselves and each other - about the real nature of their feelings. 

Sitting in her rocker, feeding Willa, Mary looked out the window and wondered for the hundredth time if she had done the right thing, telling him where Molly was, showing him Molly’s letter. She had done it out of pity for Sherlock, for his pain. She’d had no idea he’d been so affected by Molly’s leaving or she might have tried something - anything - else, a lot sooner. By the time they knew what was going on with him, their options were limited. He had descended so far into misery, depression - seeing him there, so still and withdrawn...she’d thought the only way to reach him was to tell him where Molly was. 

She shivered a little, causing Willa to grunt in protest. They had narrowly averted disaster. Mary smoothed Willa’s sparse, silky white hair, watched her little eyelids slowly closing as she nursed. “Thanks to you, little girl. You saved us.”

*****

Molly and Sean were stretched out on the huge bed in their lovely suite, facing each other, heads propped up on hands. There was a box of chocolates between them, half eaten, little foil wrappers littering the spread. 

“So. What’s your grand plan, Master? How are we doing this thing?” Molly popped another chocolate into her mouth.

“Tell me more about him. I want to know who he is.”

Molly frowned, licked chocolate from her lips. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. 

“I’ve told you about him, Sean. I don’t know what else to say.”

“You’ve told me about his behavior where you were concerned. I want to know about _him_. What he’s like apart from that.”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t know how to approach him otherwise.”

Molly turned her head, looked at Sean seriously. 

“Why are you going to approach him. I thought I was the one - “

Sean held up his hand to stop her.

“Molly, do you really think I’m going to let you just waltz up to him out of the blue, after all this time, after everything - no. We’re going to be sensible about this. I want to feel him out. I’ll know if it’s okay for you afterwards.”

“Sean...you don’t know…” She stopped, bit her lower lip. It was a habit she had thought she’d broken a long time ago. “Sherlock is not like anyone else. He can’t be ‘felt out’. He never shows anything, you’re always guessing with him. He’s, I don’t know, closed up. He never reacts the way normal people do, never.” 

Her voice quavered a little, tears stung her eyes. She sat up abruptly, covered her face with her hands. 

“Oh this is useless! Why are we even doing this? He’s never cared about me, why am I even here?” Molly rocked back and forth and all the anguish she had felt so often before came crashing down on her, rubble and debris from her life before that she’d thought was cleared away.

Sean sat up, scooted behind Molly, wrapped his arms around her. His heart ached for her. 

“Molly, Molly. Listen to me. We’re here because you love him.” 

She started to shake her head, and he held her tighter. 

“Yes you do. Molly, I can see it in you, it’s like a huge neon sign.” He sighed, loosened his hold, turned her around to face him, pulling her legs over his so that they could sit wrapped around each other, arms and legs. It was his favorite position to talk with her. 

“Okay, I want to tell you something. It’s about love. You can’t talk til I’m done and if you laugh I will poke you in your ribs until you scream. All right?” He frowned at her sternly until she nodded. “Okay. Here we go.”

“We choose to love people, Molly. All this stuff about ‘falling in love’ and romance and butterflies and birds and flowers and thunderbolts that turn out to be true eternal love - it’s all bullshit. Because love, real love, is hard. And it’s like a little sapling. You plant it, but if you don’t take care of it, feed it, water it, give it attention, keep the critters and such away from it, it will twist and turn ugly and it will die. It can grow into something huge and strong and magnificent, something that can shelter, provide all kinds of sustenance. But it’s work, hard work, and it’s something you have to do every single day. It takes _time_. When we see somebody we think is hot, or dashing and romantic, or we look across a room and meet a stranger’s eyes and something just clicks, and we think we’re falling in love - that’s not love. That’s our can of worms talking to their can of worms and it’s a recipe for disaster. Love takes time. It takes work and attention and time. And it takes friendship, the ability to support each other, to trust, to always have the other’s best interest at heart. It takes getting to know someone deep down, what their values and standards are, what they stand for and believe in. You can’t love somebody if you don’t trust them and you can’t trust them if you don’t know them.” 

Sean paused and stroked Molly’s hair back from her face. Her eyes were soft, so dark and so beautiful…

“It takes time to find the faults and cracks in another person. To find out where you’re similar and where you’re not. The thing is, if you can see all their craziness and still love them, if you go through hell with them and come out the other side still holding their hand, then you have a chance at love. Then you can _choose_ to love them or you can walk away. But it’s a choice. Always a choice. Without that choice, it’s a trap.

“I’ve seen you when you think about him. I know what you went through with him. And I watched you walk away from him and become who you really are inside. You were strong enough to do that for yourself. Despite everything he’s done, all the parts of him that infuriate you, hurt you - you still choose him. You still hold him inside of you, choose to keep all the good parts locked away like a treasure. I will lay odds that when you finally grew strong enough, when you walked away - that was the strength he saw in you all along. And I believe, I really believe, that it probably broke him open.”

Sean stroked his thumb gently across her cheek, wiping away tears. 

“I think you know him inside and out. I think you see him in ways that nobody else can because of that. You’ve seen him at his worst and you can still want him. No matter how many times he frustrates you or hurts you, you still trust him because you _know_ him. You know his heart. You’ve seen what he can do, the best of him, and that’s what you trust. You love him. If he’s the man you’ve chosen to love, I think the odds are good that he’s chosen you too.” He cupped her face in his hands, leaned his forehead against hers, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “But here’s the real secret. Even if he doesn’t - even if you go your separate ways and will never be together, you’ll always choose him, because even if he doesn’t love you back - _you loving him_ is enough. It gives you joy deep down just to know he exists and it can even bring you peace.” 

Molly sobbed, pulled herself tight against him, wrapped her arms around him. He stroked her back, kissed her cheek, rocked her until the tears were all spent. She laid her head on his shoulder and sniffed. He wriggled a bit and slipped a hand in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her nose. 

“I love you Sean,” she said, her voice very small.

Sean smiled into her hair and stroked her back. 

“I love you too, my sweet Molly.”


	4. Molly Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly relieves her anxiety; Sherlock learns to be human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bubby has left me to go on holiday with her brats...er, children...so please forgive the errors, mistakes, and general lazi...er, sloppiness. As per usual, these characters are unruly and undisciplined and totally out of control, so I make no claim on them whatsoever; they do not belong to me, never have, never will. I pity the ones who own them, they must be saints.
> 
> We are getting very near to the end of the story. 
> 
> More notes at the bottom.

Molly picked at her breakfast, mostly staring out the window at passersby. She finally gave up and propped her chin on her hand, elbow rudely on the table. Since Sean’s talk with her about love a week ago, she’d felt like there was a small empty hole the middle of her chest that was growing larger every minute. She knew what could fill it, make it stop growing. She wasn’t sure if she was brave enough to face it. She watched Sean shovel food into his mouth like it was the last he would ever taste, marveling at the appetites that so often came with slender men. All kinds of appetites. The thought brought heat to her face and she looked out the window again. 

Sean cleared his plate and leaned back with a satisfied sigh, tossing his napkin on the table. He watched Molly, noting the distracted look on her face, her untouched food. He leaned forward again, forearms resting on the table, hands clasped. 

“We’re not very far from there, you know.”

Molly looked at him with an expression very close to panic. She swallowed, looked down at her hands in her lap. 

“What are you going to do?” she whispered. 

His answer was almost equally soft. “I’ll do just what I said. Meet him, talk to him, suss him out. See how he reacts when I mention you.”

She was terrified. Why the idea of Sean meeting Sherlock was so frightening, she couldn’t begin to say. Part of her wanted to run outside, grab the first taxi that passed and speed the few miles to Baker Street, just run up the stairs and look at him. She had been fighting this for seven days and it was wearing on her.

Y _es, and that would just be a great beginning, wouldn’t it. You haven’t seen him in a year. He probably didn’t even know you were gone for weeks!_

The other part of her wanted to beg Sean to take her back to Bali, let her live out her life in peace there, with him or alone. But Sean seemed determined to resolve whatever this thing was with Sherlock, to at least get them together one last time, whatever the results.

She sighed. Finally met Sean’s eyes. She reached across the table to him and he took her hand, squeezed it gently, brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers. Still holding her hand in both of his, he smiled at her and said, “I think it’s time we got this show on the road.”

He stood up, walked to her, offered his hand. Molly drew a deep breath, stood and walked to the door with him, conscious of the looks that followed them, from both male and female. She hadn’t ever paid much attention to that before, but here in London it was especially obvious. Sean attracted attention everywhere. 

Outside on the walk they paused and Sean took her hands in his briefly. 

“I don’t think this will take very long. At least I hope not. If he kills me, you know where my will is and you are my beneficiary….”

Molly leaned into him playfully, giggling, then looked up into his eyes seriously for a minute. 

“Sean, I know you think…you think this is a good idea. And even having my doubts, I’m willing to trust you. Be careful. Just…be careful.”

Sean frowned at her. “You mean…you think he really might try to kill me…?”

Molly shook her head, forced a smile. Sean laughed and hugged her, kissed her forehead. 

“Everything will be fine, my precious girl, I promise.” 

He pulled away and hailed a taxi for her, stood and watched as it pulled away. His heart was pounding, and he wondered if she’d felt it when he hugged her. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he hailed his own taxi. 

*****

Sherlock flipped through the nearly 3,000 emails on the lap top, frowned and deleted them all at once. If they were really important, he’d get them again. He’d likewise deleted the mails and texts on his phone, all of them unread. He glanced at his watch, stood and went to stare out the window. His thoughts were full of one thing, and one thing only. 

How to get to Molly. 

When the text alert sounded on his phone, he almost deleted it without looking at it, but two words caught his attention.

_Mr. Holmes, I think we need to meet. We have a friend in common, Molly Hooper. - Sean Redmon_

He stared at the text, his pulse racing. He realized he was shaking and sat down, tried to slow his breathing. 

_Molly had to be here with him, she had to be_. 

 

His hands were shaking so hard he could barely get the words done.

_221B Baker St. Now. Door is open. - SH_

He paced, ran his hands through his hair, strode to the window a dozen times before he heard door open downstairs, heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. He turned in time to see a tall, slender, dark-haired man rap twice on the door before entering. Deep green eyes met his, and Sherlock could barely breathe.

The two men stared at each other for a long hard minute before either of them moved or said a word. Sherlock broke first. 

“Where is she?” 

Sean could match Sherlock look for look, did not react to Sherlock’s words or the menace in his voice. 

“May I come in?” His voice was light, steady, but he never broke eye contact with Sherlock, didn’t move any farther into the room. 

Sherlock took two steps back, gestured, still not breaking eye contact. 

Sean slowly moved a few paces into the room, stopped, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“You know who I am.”

“Yes. I remember the case. Where is Molly.”

“Do you love her, Sherlock? Because I do. Very much. I want to keep her safe before all else. Can you -“

Watchful as he was, Sean didn’t see it coming. Sherlock’s fist caught him just beneath his eye. The second punch went to his stomach and doubled him over, sending him to his knees. He gagged, coughed, fell sideways, dizzy. He struggled to sit up again.

“Stay down!” Sherlock screamed at him and stood over him, fists clenched. Sean stayed.

Sherlock stared at Sean, gasping like he’d just run a marathon. He swallowed, tried to slow his breathing for the second time in an hour. 

Sean touched his cheek, felt a trickle of blood. Stitches maybe, he thought. His middle felt like one huge bruise, and he knew he would have trouble straightening up for a bit. He kept very still. He’d anticipated anger but not this - not this towering rage. He hadn’t meant to sound flippant or challenging. He had vastly underestimated Sherlock’s feelings for Molly, and felt a small twinge of sympathy for what Sherlock must have gone through the past year. Stupid, stupid, he thought. He should have known from Molly, from how deeply she loved this man, that he would love her just as much. And be in just as much pain, have just as much longing as she did. Damn. I would have hit me too, he thought, and would have laughed if he could have gotten enough breath.

Sherlock suddenly dropped to one knee beside Sean, grasped the front of his shirt with one hand and shook him, but not hard. 

“Tell me where she is.” 

Sherlock’s voice was tremulous, and Sean could feel him shaking. Very slowly, Sean brought his hand to Sherlock’s and pulled it gently away from his shirt. Sherlock slowly collapsed to the floor beside Sean, and buried his face in his hands. 

Sean gave Sherlock a minute, while he pulled himself up to a sitting position, groaning a little, one arm held tightly across his stomach. 

“For a skinny dude, you do punch awfully hard,” he said, grimacing. 

Sherlock dropped his hands from his face, pulled his knees up, rested his elbows on them, hands dangling limply between. He vaguely noticed that his knuckle was scraped where he had hit Sean.

They both sat in silence, finally calmed. 

“Do you know how much she loves you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock said nothing, but turned his head and looked at Sean. 

He has such remarkable eyes, Sean thought. 

Sean had seen immediately why Molly was so taken with Sherlock, why anyone would be. Molly loved him for who he was, yes, but he could imagine what Molly had felt on encountering this magical man for the first time. He was oddly devastating. 

Sherlock’s next words caught Sean by surprise. 

“You’ve slept with her.” It was a statement, not a question. 

Sean pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. Probably not a good idea to look like I’m taking this lightly, he thought. 

“Slept with her. Yes.” He refrained from adding ‘quite often’ to the end of that answer. “Sherlock, listen. Yes, I _slept_ with her. The operative word there is slept. It was not sexual.”

At Sherlock’s odd look, Sean did give a snort of laughter. “I’m gay, you bloody arse. Do you really think I’d be here to give her back to you if I was having sex with her? I love Molly, truly deeply love her, more than anything. She is one of the most wonderful, incredible things that’s ever happened to me. She quite literally saved my life. She is my friend, my very best friend, my princess, and I would do anything for her. Which is why I’m here getting beaten to a pulp by you.” He touched his face again. The bleeding had stopped completely. Maybe not stitches then. “She loves you. Very, very much. And judging by your behaviour, you love her just as much. I didn’t think it would be such a great idea for her to just suddenly show up on your doorstep after disappearing for a year. So I came first to see…how things stood. You tosser, you could have waited until I said something awful before you hit me.”

“Where is she. I need to see her.”

“Yes, well, about that…Molly has changed since you saw her last. Changed a lot. Not on the inside, but outwardly. You must have noticed it happening before she left…”

Sherlock closed his eyes, nodded. Yes, he remembered the changes and how terrified he was on seeing them, what a fool he’d been. “How can she not hate me for the way I’ve been to her…all the things I’ve done…all the…” His voice was a whisper, finally dropped away. 

“You two are going to have to get over that. She does the same thing, only her version is how weak and silly she is…” Sean groaned as he tried to get to his feet. “Do you box? That was a really good punch.”

Sherlock got to his feet quickly, helped pull Sean up. It was difficult to look Sean in the eye this time, but he managed. “Sorry.”

Sean looked around the room, spotted the chairs. “Can we sit? There are some things I still need to tell you.” At Sherlock’s nod, Sean collapsed gratefully into John’s chair. 

Sherlock took his seat opposite, ready to listen. “Tell me about Molly.”

*****

Molly had done as instructed: Gone to the bank; to the real estate agents office - she really needed to find her own place again; she’d done some shopping, had some tea at a new cafe, then gone back to the hotel. 

She dumped her packages on the bed, kicked her shoes off. She felt tight, restless. She still hadn’t heard from Sean and it worried her. Texting him didn’t seem like a good idea, at least not yet, though it seemed to her that he was taking much longer than he should. She tried not to think about where he was, what he was doing. When she did, that empty hole in her chest just seemed to get bigger and bigger. She stripped off her clothes, unpinned her hair and shook it around her shoulders. Rummaging through a drawer, she came up with a pair of plain black bikini pants and a black tank. She stretched out the bottom of the tank, pulled it up over her belly and tied it in a tight knot just underneath her breasts. She pulled on the pants, and padded out to the lounge hoping she remembered how to work the music system…

*****

By the time the taxi stopped in front of the hotel, Sherlock thought he had himself under control. Sean had pressed the key card into his hand, smiled at him and sent him on his way from Baker Street to the Milestone. A fairly short ride, as taxi rides went these days. After their talk, Sherlock felt a kind of stillness settle over him. He still didn’t understand all of what Sean said to him, but he understood enough. Molly was different, but she was still _his_ Molly on the inside. And that was enough. That was all he needed. It wasn’t all about the work, never had been. She had terrified him, intimidated him, made him feel powerless simply by being there, and he couldn’t accept that. So he had used her, manipulated her, tried to overpower her - even when he needed her most, and she came through so well for him, he had simply left her there to cope with the aftermath as best she could. “Guilt is useless here, Sherlock, it serves no purpose. Recognize what you did, admit it, and let it go. Trust me, once you do, everything will be a lot easier.” Sean’s words still hung there in his head, and he finally understood what he had been doing to himself all these years - and to Molly. It was, indeed, time to let it go.

He stood on the walk in front of the lovely hotel and for the first time in his life, actually _felt_ the beauty of the place. He pushed through the doors and went in, hope blooming inside him - another feeling that was new.

*****

Molly had pushed the tables and chairs out of the center of the room, moving everything back until she thought she had enough space. She was anxious to begin. She managed to get the system working, and the first ringing notes of the guitar spilled from the speakers. She stood in the center of the room, arms held straight over her head, eyes closed, legs slightly apart. When the drums started, she began.

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_Sweet as can be_

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_Full of mystery_

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_From the original tree_

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_Shares it with me._

The music was rhythmic, exotic. Her pelvis rotated once, twice, caught the beat of the music and circled in time with it. The rest of her body remained perfectly still, only her thighs driving the circles of her bum and lower belly. Perfect muscle isolation.

_Humid gleaming precious well_

_Love to drink that water_

_Parallel worlds when the sun goes down_

_The atmosphere grows hotter._

_She’s got a mango in her garden…_

A step forward and her right thigh twisted, pulling her hip forward in a kind of pop. The left thigh echoed the motion and she was stepping around the room in a circle, her upper body still held motionless, arms above her head, eyes closed. She stopped in the center again, rotated her hips a few times, then began moving only her hips in a figure eight motion, slowly at first, then faster. She dropped her arms to shoulder height, stretched to each side and suddenly her entire body was shaking rapidly. Shimmying. 

_I slip through the glistening gate_

_Tide began to pound_

_Tears of light poured over me_

_And ricocheted all around_

A change in the music and she was stepping around the room again, only this time keeping her arms at shoulder height and stopping every other step to pop her hip forward and then to the back before she took another step. The muscles in her thighs and belly rippled underneath her brown skin; small beads of sweat appeared on her upper lip, at her temples. A rosy blush bloomed on her cheeks. She bent forward slightly, and each hand lightly touched her breast, floated upward and out, as if offering her heart while her hips continued to circle, and her eyes remained closed.

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_Sweet as can be_

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_Full of mystery_

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_From the original tree_

_She’s got a mango in her garden_

_Shares it with me_

The last chord of the kora sounded over the last beat of the drum, and she stilled, one leg bent slightly forward, the other straight, arms crossed over her chest, head bent forward. Her eyes were still closed.

When she opened her eyes at last, feeling relaxed, centered, sexually aroused, peaceful…there in the doorway, staring at her open-mouthed and stunned, was Sherlock.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Molly dances to is the one I dance to, "Mango", from which the title of this story comes. It is a paean to female sexuality (seriously, it was written as that!) and is a beautiful, sensuous, exhilarating song, and one of the best I've ever found for belly dancing, at least for me. I just kept seeing Molly dancing to it, so that's what I made her do. She didn't protest at all. :D


	5. Molly Loves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock meet; a little more about Sean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter; more to follow soon.

She wasn’t quiet when she came in. The door didn’t exactly slam shut, her feet didn’t quite stomp up the stairs - but it wasn’t quiet. When she reached the landing, she paused, steeled herself for what was coming. She thought she was prepared for the worst, but then she had thought that before, staring at Sherlock seconds before he moved. 

She set her shoulders and strode into the flat, determination in every inch of her compact form. The lounge was empty; a small rustle of noise in the kitchen. She began tugging off her gloves as she went through the door, saw him rummaging in a cupboard. Good luck with that, she thought. 

“Sherlock, we need to fix this - oh _shit_!” Mary didn’t usually curse and the word, even under these circumstances felt strange coming out of her mouth. But it was exactly the right word.

He had turned when he heard her come into the kitchen, stood staring back at her with a cup in one hand and a tin of tea in the other. 

Not Sherlock. 

Not quite. But oh…!

Mary stared at the man across the room, so like and so unlike Sherlock. It took a minute to start cataloging the differences, but start she did. He didn’t seem like a threat with only a cup and a tin of tea and that easy, beginning-to-be-amused look on his face. But one never knew.

He cleared his throat, took a small step and set the tea and cup on the edge of the table, nudging a bit of God-knows-what out of the way to make room. 

“Hello,” he offered mildly, his voice - except for the pleasant tone - a near duplicate of Sherlock’s. “I’m Sean.” 

*****

Molly couldn’t move. The jumble of reactions rushing through her seemed to cancel each other out, in effect paralysing her. She kept blinking, thoughts chasing each other through her head so fast she couldn’t choose one to express. 

He looked the same. Or maybe not - there were small differences. It had been nearly a year after all. And that thought - a year, nearly a whole year - broke the paralysis. She took one step towards him, then another, closing the distance slowly - if she moved too fast she might frighten him away... 

Sherlock tried to remember to breathe, watching her come towards him, noting every tiny detail in some far away tiny corner of his mind; the rest was taken up desperately, almost hysterically, trying to sort and make sense of the hurricane inside him. His arms hung loose by his sides, hands open and motionless. He still stared, mouth slightly open, eyes wide, looking somewhat innocent and childlike in his shock.

By the time she was within a few feet of him, Molly could feel the ache and pressure of tears. She didn’t want to cry but she knew it was inevitable. She stood in front of him for the first time in almost a year and wondered how much a heart - _her_ heart - could take. Her fingers twitched with the need to touch him; her nostrils flared, seeking, breathing in the still familiar scent of him. His gaze swept over her, head to toe and back, again and again, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak, only looked at her with those eyes _those_ _eyes_ and she trembled. 

“Sherlock.” A mere whisper on her lips.

He took a deep breath, blinked, coming out of the trance created by discovering her here, like this _like_ _this!_ and his gaze swept her once more. Different. So different from any version of her he had ever known or imagined. But still Molly. Still his Molly - he could see that plainly in her warm, dark eyes - and deep inside a piece of him relaxed, relieved, grateful.

He tried to clear his throat, failed, swallowed instead. He should say something. _What_ _do_ _you_ _want_ _from_ _her_ , Sean had asked him, and right now, this minute, with Molly standing in front of him nearly naked, brown, trembling, damp with sweat, Sherlock shocked himself with the answer. His need was a raw wound in him, strange, foreign, both ugly and beautiful, as compelling as fire daring him to touch, to plunge into it and burn to ashes.

 

All this poured through him in an instant, and all he could think to say…

“You’re...brown.”

Molly glanced down at herself, looked up and started to smile, glanced down again…

“Oh...Oh God!” and she turned, began a sprint to the bedroom, flashing Sherlock a glimpse of her barely covered bottom before she turned at the doorway and said frantically “Stay there! Don’t move! I’m just...I’m coming back!”

Sherlock blinked, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He glanced around the suite, then took off his scarf and gloves, shrugged out of his coat.

In the bedroom Molly tried to pull the tank top over head, succeeded getting it stuck at her shoulders before remembering the knot. She pulled it down, made a little mew of frustration when her fingers couldn’t undo the tie quickly enough. She finally loosened it, yanked the top over her head, then grabbed the first thing she could find - which happened to be a long gauzy cotton caftan - and pulled it on. She started towards the door, then thought to check the mirror. Her hair would just have to be the way it was, she couldn’t waste another second. She hurried through the bedroom door back to the lounge. 

Sherlock was standing with his back to her, gazing at the furniture pushed this way and that in the lounge. His hand were in his pockets. She stared at the line of his back, the dark curls at the nape of his neck, felt again the old pangs of longing, _of_ _want_. How many times had she stared at him just like this, in the lab, the morgue, at his flat, at hers...it all came flooding back, washing over her in waves that left her shaking. 

He turned and looked at her and the lines of his face changed, seemed to soften. He drew a breath, parted his lips as if to say something. The words fell apart and he simply gazed at her. She could see it all in his eyes - wonderment, confusion, worry, joy - all vying for expression. He pressed his lips together, looked down, then back up at her and that was all she could stand. She went to him, slid her arms around him, laid her head against his chest, and the tears finally arrived.

He gasped when he felt her against him, put his hands on her waist, shyly, unsure if she wanted more from him yet. She smelled of sandalwood and jasmine and herself, her own sweat damp self, and he pressed his lips against the top of her head, slid his hands up her back, finally wrapping his arms around her tightly. She made a small sound that could have been a sob and he said her name, rubbing his lips against her hair, eyes closed, revelling in the feel of her. They stood that way for a long time. 

*****

Mary sat across from this not-quite-Sherlock, and studied him over her cup as she sipped the tea he’d made them. The resemblances were remarkable, but so were the differences, not only the physical but also the personality, the attitudes. She noted them all, not sure she could trust this stranger, despite his affability so far. 

“So. You’re the friend Molly’s been with all this time.”

Sean smiled at her, careful not to overdo it. He knew she didn’t trust him yet, and why should she?

“Yes. We’ve been at my house in Bali, I think she told you that in her letter. Sorry about all the secrecy but she really didn’t want...anyone...to know where she was.”

“You mean Sherlock.” Mary smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yes. Molly figured that if one person knew where she was it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew and he would find out. She needed time - and distance - away from him. She knew she could count on you to keep the secret.” Not flattery, just the truth. 

Mary noted how serious he became when he mentioned Molly. He really does care for her, she thought. A point in the plus column for him.

He sipped his tea, smiled at her again. “Molly said you have a new baby?”

Mary’s smile was genuine this time, all the way to her eyes. “Yes. Willa. She’ll be a year old in two weeks. Born the day after Molly left.”

“Molly will be thrilled to see her.” 

“Speaking of Molly, where is she now?” 

“Um...Molly is at the hotel where we’ve been staying the past week.”

“And Sherlock?”

“He should be with her by now.” 

Mary set her cup down slowly, carefully. “And how do you think that reunion is going?”

Sean studied her for a moment. She was concerned for both of them, he knew that. But this was beginning to feel like an interrogation. 

“Mrs. Watson...Mary...I haven’t known Molly as long as you have, but long enough. I’ve been with her constantly for the past year and I’ve come to love her very much. I only met Sherlock this afternoon -” here he touched the cut on his cheek “-which began with...a slight antagonism but I believe ended with the beginnings of friendship. I gave Sherlock the key card to our...Molly’s...room and put him in a taxi. I thought it was time the two of them got over this game they’ve been playing. I truly don’t believe that either of them will harm the other at this point.”

Mary nodded once, sighed, picked up her tea again. She heard truth in his voice, and he knew she could easily and quickly check the veracity of what he said. She smiled at him, relaxing a bit. 

“Tell me how you and Molly met.”

Sean grinned at her. “Oh, that is a very interesting story!”

***** 

Molly was the first to pull away, brushing at his jacket where her tears had wet it. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, but Sherlock caught her hands.

“Molly,” he said softly, “I need to sit down.” 

“Oh. Oh, of course!” She sniffed, gave a cursory wipe to her eyes, and led him to a sofa where she bent and moved a table away from it, one that she had shoved out of the way to make room for her dancing. She wondered how much of it he had seen, and felt a slight blush warm her cheeks.

 

Sherlock’s gaze immediately went to her bottom as she bent over the table, the tip of his tongue peeking through his lips before he pressed them together and looked at the floor. 

Molly settled on the sofa, leaned against the cushions sideways, legs tucked up. Sherlock sat gingerly, slightly turned towards her. Not quite sure what to do with his hands, he finally rested them on his knees. 

He wanted to look at her (rake his eyes down her sun-browned body), was almost afraid to meet her eyes again, and settled on glancing around the room before resting his gaze on the patch of sofa cushion that showed between them. 

“Molly, I…” Cleared his throat, started again. “I met Sean. He told me...about the two of you. I’m afraid I wasn’t very cordial at first…”

Molly tensed a bit. “What happened?”

He hesitated, closed his eyes briefly, then looked up at her, holding her gaze steadily.

“I hit him. Twice.” Molly groaned and covered her face with her hands; Sherlock quickly modified his words. “He’s all right. He’s fine. A small cut here…” He touched his cheekbone under his eye as his voice trailed off. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, shame reddening his face. 

“Where is he now?” 

“At Baker Street still. I think. I told him he could stay there.”

Molly nodded, relaxed again. It could have been much worse. She pushed those thoughts away. Her heartbeat sped again as she gazed at Sherlock, all the bits and parts of him that she had loved for so long finally _finally_ here next to her. A wisp of hair curled just in front of his ear and her finger twitched; the urge to touch it was almost more than she could bear. She had always dreamed of running her fingertips lightly over his long girly lashes, tracing that cupid’s bow with her tongue…She drew a slightly shaky breath.

“So...what now?” She was still terrified that he would decide that this was a mistake, not what he wanted at all. 

His expression softened again, and he blinked several times rapidly and suddenly Molly realized that he must be just as terrified as she was. She scooted towards him a little, stopped short of touching him.

 

“Sherlock, tell me what you want.”

He looked away, looked back at her. 

“You. I want you.” 

Want. Not need. _Want_. Her breath caught. 

“Then you can have me. All of me, anytime.”

Sherlock studied her face, trying to accept what she was saying. The old refrain kept trying to rise in him: _How can she not hate me after all I’ve done, the way I’ve treated her for so many years..._ He thought of Sean’s words to him a short while ago. 

“Tell me what you want, Molly,” he whispered.

“All I’ve ever wanted is you.” 

 

 


	6. Molly Opens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All I've ever wanted is you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This turned out nothing like I planned - again. I give up. I own nothing, I claim nothing, I control nothing, it all happens without me. These characters do what they want. 
> 
> Thanks to Bubby, again, for being patient and wonderful and helping me - and for not smacking me silly when I rant about my characters running rampant over my stories.

_All I’ve ever wanted is you._

The relief that surged through Sherlock quickly melted the tension in him. His entire body let go, the tight wire wound around his chest vanished, and he could breathe again. _It_ _wasn’t_ _too_ _late for them_. For a moment he thought he might be dizzy from giddiness, but he focused on her face _that sweet, beautiful face_ and became solid again, grounded, sure. He put his hand against her cheek and she nuzzled into his palm, closing her eyes. 

“Molly,” he whispered. 

She opened her eyes, took his hand in both of hers, rubbing her thumbs over the knuckles. He pulled his hand away, grasped her wrist and pulled her towards him. As he slid back on the sofa, Molly stood, hiked up her caftan around her thighs, and straddled his lap. Then she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, moaning a little as she buried her hands in his curls and pressed herself against his chest. 

Sherlock froze for an instant. He hadn’t expected this level of intensity _ferocity_ in her so quickly. He managed to get his hands to her waist, at first gently, until he felt the tip of her tongue against his lips. The sheer intimacy of that touch made his hands clench and pull her tighter to him, made his gut tighten, his pelvis suddenly push upwards, as he groaned and opened his mouth to her. Feeling her tongue slide along his, her lips moving, caressing his, sucking lightly before invading his mouth again - it was almost too much. He slid his hands up her back to her shoulders and gently eased her away from him a little. 

“Sherlock...what…”

“Wait...wait...please.”

She settled on his lap, hands against his chest, stared at him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I thought...I mean…”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “No. No. It’s not that...I just...It’s been...it’s been a very long time...for me.” He was breathless, almost shaking. When he opened his eyes, Molly was surprised to see tears there. She swallowed, gently brushed a curl off his brow. 

“Then we’ll take it slow. There’s no rush.” She smiled, leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you.” He pulled her against him again, smoothing her hair, just holding her. He sighed against her shoulder. He knew she could feel his erection, but she held herself still and waited. He closed his eyes again, inhaled her scent, kissed her neck just below her ear. 

She was so soft. Her body relaxed against his and all he wanted was to pull her inside him, to hold her next to his heart, keep her safe. Keep her forever. 

“Molly…” he murmured. “You know this may not...it might not be the most, uhm, thrilling experience...you’ve ever had.”

Molly pulled back, her face very serious. “Sherlock. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me if we never...do anything. It doesn’t matter if it’s…” She stopped, blinked, sighed. “Whatever happens with us now, it will be wonderful. We’ll get to know each other as we go along and if it’s not...if it’s not an earth shattering experience at first, it will get better. I love you. All that matters is that you’re here.”

Sherlock bent his head, forehead against her shoulder. “I’m afraid,” he whispered. He raised his head, stared at her, his hands moving nervously at her waist, thumbs stroking. “I’m afraid I won’t be good enough for you, that I’ll lose you again. I couldn’t...” He stopped, breathed deeply. “I couldn’t stand that.”

Molly touched the wisp of hair in front of his ear with her finger, studied his face. How strange it was to see him so vulnerable with her. He had never been like this, even when he came to her that day in the lab and asked for her help, before he disappeared, even that day he took her crime solving with him, when he found out about Tom. Something crumbled inside her and she knew the very last of her defenses was coming down. 

It was a risk, a huge, terrible risk. If he changed again, became the old Sherlock, the one that hurt her over and over - she would have nothing with which to shield herself, no way to fend off the pain. Once she accepted this, accepted him, completely, she would be vulnerable in a way she’d never been before, regardless of how much she’d loved him. She had to trust him now, all the way. What was it Sean had said - you can’t love someone unless you trust them and you can’t trust them unless you know them - or something like that. She _knew_ Sherlock, knew him at his worst - and at his best. It had taken him a year, but he _had_ changed, had become a man who could say outright that he was afraid, admit that he was flawed...and that was the Sherlock she knew was inside, the good one that she’d always known was there, no matter how hard he tried not to show it. 

But I’ve changed too, she thought. I’ve gotten stronger. Maybe we both needed to change, to be able to balance each other more, before this could happen. That idea was satisfying to her, it felt right: that in order to be together they had _both_ needed to change.

“You’ve been a complete prick to me more times than I can count, Sherlock Holmes.”

His eyes widened and she saw the shock there, the pain those words caused him - and the shame and regret. 

“It never drove me away, did it. I left a year ago because I thought I might not be able to take it anymore. I’ve done a lot of thinking this past year, with Sean’s help. And I’ve finally realized that...being without you at all is much, much harder than being with you at your worst. I’m not going anywhere. If you want me, I’m here, and this is where I’m staying.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but seeing the realization in his eyes was like watching a sunrise. He touched her hair, her face, smiled at her, then pulled her down and kissed her, gently, sweetly. “Thank you. Thank you Molly, my Molly,” he whispered. 

*****

Mary’s tea sat on the table in front of her, cold and forgotten. She had to remember to close her mouth several times, listening to Sean recount his meeting with Molly. 

“I’ve been with her ever since,” he said softly. “She took care of me through all that, straightened me out. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and all I want is for her to be happy. That meant getting her back to Sherlock, so...that’s where we are now.” He glanced at his watch. “And I should text her, but I have a feeling it might interrupt, so…” He grinned, looking slightly impish. “I’ll give them some time.”

“Oh! I need to phone John, he’s probably ready to call out the troops to find me.” Mary pulled out her phone, stood and went into the lounge. During the course of his story, Mary found she liked Sean quite a bit. He was so like Sherlock in so many ways - but a much nicer, more pleasant, less...backwards Sherlock. She wanted John to meet him. She still didn’t trust him completely, but so far he seemed like a decent man. His tale about meeting Molly was very interesting. He wasn’t afraid to admit not-so-nice things about himself and his past; that was good. 

Sean watched Mary pace a little as she spoke to her husband. This is a woman with secrets, he thought. He liked her; she had spunk. She had listened to his carefully edited version of how he and Molly had gotten together, paying close attention to the details. She was very sharp; he would hate to have her as an enemy. 

Mary poked her head into the kitchen again. “Sean, would you like to have dinner with us? You can meet John and Willa.”

Sean regarded her seriously for a minute. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.” When she went back to the lounge, still talking, he gathered up their cups, put them into the sink. He needed to tread very carefully with these people. So far, it was all going very well, but getting in too deep with them would not be a good idea. He knew Molly would be staying with Sherlock; his gut told him he was right on the mark with that. And he was happy about it, he really was…

“All right then, John is coming to pick us up and we’ll see about dinner.” Mary smiled brightly at Sean. “I can’t wait for you to meet Willa!”

Sean smiled back at her. “I’m looking forward to it very much.”

*****

They held each other, whispering now and then, sharing kisses, touching each other gently, carefully. A different kind of tension began to grow in them both, a slow buildup that gradually turned into wanting something...else, a _need_ for more. 

Sherlock finally cupped her face in his hands and murmured against her lips, “Can we go into the bedroom?”

Molly turned her face, kissed his palm, smiled at him. Her eyes were dark, deeper than night, soft with wanting. “Yes,” she whispered and slid from his lap. She stood and held out her hand.

Sherlock was still afraid as she led him toward the bedroom door. He wasn’t completely ignorant, but his experience was limited, was years ago. Truth was, he barely remembered it; drugs and alcohol had obscured most of it, for which he had been mostly grateful in the years since. 

But the fear wasn’t that he might be awkward. It was fear of disappointing Molly. She would never show it, he knew that. She would never make him feel that he had failed her in that way. It was fear that he wouldn’t be able to _show_ her how much he wanted her, needed her now, that he wouldn’t be able to make her understand. But God, how he wanted her! It was such a deep ache in him, a terrible yearning to be as close to her as he could get, and to be physically joined with her...the thought was not about pleasure, or just sex; it was about so much _more_ than that, and he needed her to understand.

Molly closed the bedroom door, then without a word, without looking at him, walked to the bed. She bent slightly, pulled the caftan up and over her head, dropped it on the floor. Then she crawled to the middle of the bed, turned and faced him, kneeling. Waiting. 

She was golden brown everywhere, head to toe. He stood still and stared at her, barely breathing, imagined her naked in the sun as he shrugged his jacket off and tossed it on a chair. He toed off his shoes, never taking his eyes off her for a second. As he walked toward the bed, he looked in her eyes and saw his Molly _his_ _Molly_ looking back at him, and felt electricity spark at the base of his spine, shooting upward, igniting him. This perfect, beautiful, golden woman was his. He wanted to laugh with joy, wanted to pick her up and run through the streets with her naked in his arms, shouting that she belonged to _him_ , and him alone. 

He smiled at her, and there was nothing fearful in it now. He bent, slid off his socks, pulled his shirt free of his trousers, unbuttoned the cuffs, and his eyes never left hers. 

Molly lifted her chin and stared back at him, watching him undress. Her heart pounded; she felt that delicious ache between her legs. When he slid his trousers down his legs and stepped out of them, she dropped her gaze down to the beautiful bulge in his pants, and bit her lip to keep from moaning. 

She had wanted him for so long, and yet had never imagined he could be this beautiful, this perfect. She watched the lean muscles move under his pale skin as he climbed onto the bed and crawled to her. He knelt in front of her, still staring into her eyes, that half smile on his lips. His eyes glittered, electric aquamarine rings around black pupils, dilated with lust. He placed a hand on the side of her neck, rubbing his thumb along her jaw, then slid the hand back under her hair and pulled her to him. His kiss was gentle at first, searching, caressing her lips with his, but when she put her hands against his chest, with that single touch, he groaned, pushed his tongue into her mouth, and the kiss became hard and demanding. 

He pushed her down, lowered himself on top of her. His mouth was everywhere, his hands covered every inch of her that he could reach, fingers setting her on fire. He whispered and murmured to her constantly - her name, words she couldn’t make out or understand. He pressed his belly against hers, rubbed his chest against her, kissed and sucked and licked his way down to her breasts. He kissed her breasts all over, licked each taut nipple before taking it into his mouth and sucking hard, pulling it with his lips, lashing it with his tongue until she cried out. Her cries, moans, gasps goaded him, until he raised himself away from her, straddling her thighs. He grasped the edge of her panties, began to slowly lower them, both thumbs brushing the silky hair of her delta. He had pulled the panties just to the tops of her thighs, exposing the cleft of her labia, when he suddenly stopped. His eyes slowly moved up her body, lingered on her breasts, continued to her face - then just as slowly moved back down. 

Molly raised her head, saw him staring down at her, fingers still curved around the elastic edge of her panties. His mouth was slightly open, his breathing was deep and fast, but he was stock still, just looking at her. 

“Sherlock? What’s...what’s wrong?”

He looked up at her face, his eyes wide. “Nothing,” he whispered. “I wish...I wish I had a photograph of you just like this...exactly this way…” 

All she could do was stare at him. She felt a giggle start its way up her throat, swallowed it. She waited.

Sherlock swept his eyes down her body again, then swung his leg over so that he kneeled beside her, pushing her panties down to her knees. She kicked them all the way down, flung them away with her foot. He straddled her again, by her knees, leaned forward to rub his face against her belly, hands sliding over her hips while he licked and sucked at her skin. He looked up at her, questioning, then moved to let her slide her legs apart. He knelt between them, sliding his hands up her thighs, lightly brushing his thumbs over her labia. When she bent her legs up, moving her knees apart wider, he lay down on his belly. 

He spent some time just looking at her, inhaling her, touching lightly with his fingers, tickling. He drew a finger up her from bottom to top, back down, then slowly, carefully, pulled her labia apart. She was laving heavily, the fluid leaking down to wet the bed. He put his finger in it, rubbed it back up over her vulva, swirled it over the swollen flesh. He put his tongue in it, barely pushing inside her, eliciting a soft moan. When he flicked upward with his tongue, she gasped, reached down to tangle her fingers in his hair, drew her knees up toward her chest more and pushed them farther apart. She was erect now, her clit like a tiny penis, begging to be sucked, the flesh of her inner labia flushed red and swollen. He closed his mouth over it and sucked, flicking with his tongue. He pulled the labia with his lips, then repeated it all over and over. Molly gripped his hair, pressed herself against his mouth, her cries and moans becoming louder. She was so close…

He stopped suddenly, shoved his pants down to his thighs and climbed over her, quickly guiding himself into her, hilting himself with one thrust. Molly screamed his name, her fingers clawing his back as her entire body went rigid, her cunt squeezing and releasing, milking him. With a cry that felt ripped out of his throat, he pounded into her, spurting with each thrust, feeling like his very essence, his entire self was pouring out through his cock into her. 

Neither of them could move. Trembling, gasping, he lay on top of her, face buried in her neck, still feeling the euphoria wash over him with every breath. Molly’s arms were tight around him, her feet now resting on the backs of his thighs. Every so often she would shudder slightly, make a soft little sound in her throat. 

They lay that way for quite a while, taking a long time to come down. Finally Sherlock managed to turn his head, shift his weight slightly to the side - which made her moan in protest, the moan making him smile. He nuzzled her jaw, kissed the tender skin under it, slid an arm up to grasp her shoulder. 

“Is it always like that?” he whispered. 

Molly smiled, kept her eyes closed, slid her hand over his shoulder. “It better not be. I don’t think my heart would hold out for too many of those.”

He breathed a small laugh, closed his eyes. He thought it might be like that more times than not, but he kept that to himself for now. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I'm ashockinglackofsatin over on tumblr if anybody wants to come and play!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock together; a little more about Sean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale has gone completely off the rails and become something totally different from what it started out to be. Hugs and kisses and huge thank yous to everyone who has read and kudoed and commented so far, I love you dearly and hope you can stay with me and my wayward characters til the end!
> 
> As usual, I do not own these characters, they belong to their creators and I get nothing but fun out of this.

_His mother’s voice on the phone was cracking, hoarse - desperate. “Please come home, I’m so frightened...it’s never been this bad before, I don’t know…”_

_The phone went dead, and he ran through the rain to the car, David screaming at him from the doorway. The hour’s drive to his mother’s house was a nightmare of slick streets choked with crazy drivers; David’s voice rang in his head, sounding like a foreboding spectre thundering “Doom!” over and over. Somehow he managed to keep the car on the road, made it to the house in one piece._

_The front door was open, hanging on its hinges. He swallowed thickly, stepped through the battered opening, softly calling. “Mum? Are you here?”_

Sean jerked awake, sat up gasping. The damned dream again. He’d thought it was gone; the past year with Molly had seemed to vanquish it. But here it was again.

He swung his legs to the floor, scrubbed his face with his hands and for a moment had no idea where he was. Then he remembered: Sherlock’s. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. 

Sherlock...seeing him again could well be the reason the dream had returned after all this time. Sean ran his hands through his hair, stood up. He pushed the dream and all thoughts about it into his mental trash bin and went to the kitchen to make some tea. 

Going back over the events of the day - no wonder his head was rattled. The rather violent meeting with Sherlock, being surprised by Mary Watson, then dinner with Mary and John and the baby...he smiled, thinking about Willa. She was a very sweet little girl. He wished he and David…

Sean shook his head. No. Don’t go there, not now. While the kettle heated, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly four in the morning. Probably best not to call or text Molly just yet. He would wait until it was getting light outside at least. Thinking of Molly made him smile again. He hoped his little princess would wake up sore and satisfied. 

The kettle boiled, he fixed his tea, went to settle on the sofa again. He was sure he could find something to read in Sherlock’s mess.

*****

Molly sat up slowly. She didn’t want to wake Sherlock just yet. She slid out of the bed, slipped into the bathroom and shut the door before she flicked on the light. After she peed and washed her hands, she filled a glass with water and sat down on the lid of the toilet to think. 

She was deliciously, delightfully sore. Sherlock...had worn her out; she’d had to tell him to stop, she couldn’t go another round. She grinned. He’d immediately apologised, worried that he had hurt her in some way. After assuring him that she was perfectly fine and explaining to him a bit about abraded tissues and such, he had held her - but he couldn’t stop stroking her skin and hair, or kissing her. 

Molly sighed. He was starved for touch. She wondered if anyone had physically touched him at all in the past year. Not that he got all that much touching before. He had never been much for hugging or any sort of touch that wasn’t absolutely necessary. She sipped her water, wondering what it was going to be like now, actually being with him. She was suddenly a bit anxious thinking about that. She had been so glad to see him, was stunned when he responded to her the way he did. The old Molly would probably have been a gibbering mess. The thought made her grin. The “old Molly” - was there such a thing? Was she really different or just...more herself now, less afraid of being who she actually was? 

The door opened and Sherlock wandered in, blinking in the light, completely and unselfconsciously naked. He yawned as he walked toward her, then smiled sleepily and Molly all but melted right there in the bathroom. She stood up and slipped her arms around him, relishing the feel of his skin, the warmth of him against her. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her back, then gently pushed her away and walked to the toilet, where he lifted the seat and proceeded to brace himself against the wall with one hand and hold himself with the other - and began to pee. 

Molly clamped her hands over her mouth to keep from laughing. Of all the things she had imagined with Sherlock, this was never one of them. Watching him pee was not exactly high up on her fantasy list, but now she wondered why. This was so unexpected, so ordinary and strange at the same time. She couldn’t stop smiling. Well, she thought, we’re just diving right in to domestic bliss!

*****

Mary sat alone in the dark, sipping a cup of chamomile tea and thinking - about Sherlock and Molly, and about Sean. John and Willa were sound asleep and she usually enjoyed this brief time to herself, but tonight something bothered her. Trouble was, she couldn’t quite identify what it was. 

Sean was a charmer. He had John wrapped around his finger in seconds after they met. Willa took to him right away, letting him hold her, even reaching for him right away, which was unlike her. Molly apparently liked him enough to spend a year living with him, far away from her friends and family. She liked him herself, found him witty and fun and exceedingly smart. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something not quite right about him, something underneath the surface that was...a tiny bit dark. She didn’t feel threat exactly; nothing about him warned her of danger. Just an undercurrent, a thread of mystery that kept nagging at her. His resemblance to Sherlock was striking enough to wonder about, and yet the differences were also enough to be able to put it all down to coincidence. She wondered what Molly felt about that, and also Sherlock who, of course, would have noticed it. 

Something big was being left out of Sean’s story. Her instincts were to trust, but with vigilance. She would keep an eye on him. And in the meantime…

She set down her tea and stood, walked to the small desk across from the sofa. She sat down and opened her laptop, typed the name “Sean Redmon” in the search box. 

*****

They camped out in the middle of the bed, munching on goodies from room service, touching each other, and talking. If Molly hadn’t known better she would have sworn he was using a stimulant; she was used to rapid-fire deductions, but the rest of the time, in the past, Sherlock had been relatively silent as he observed and deduced. Now he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Interspersed between stories about everything from his childhood to various cases he’d been involved with, he asked her questions. Oddly, he listened to her answers, carefully, something to which Molly wasn’t accustomed. 

When Molly paused before answering a question about her dad and his illness, Sherlock became concerned that he had overstepped. 

“I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t want to talk about that. It’s just that....I want to know everything about you. All this is so new...I’m going to make mistakes, Molly, sometimes big ones. You have to be willing to let me know when I do.” He held her hand as he said this, looking down at it, then glancing up at her through his lashes. 

Molly pulled her hand away. She crawled out of bed, bent and took the tray of food, set it on a table. She grabbed two small bottles of water, then climbed back in the bed and handed one to Sherlock. She settled in front of him, sitting tailor fashion, pulled him up to sit in front of her the same way, their knees touching. Sherlock watched her through all of this, his eyes wide, fearful that he’d blundered terribly. 

“Sherlock, you can ask me anything. You already know so much about me, my life...whatever else you want to know, it’s okay. If you mess up, that’s okay too. Mistakes happen, everybody makes them. I know this is new for you, it’s...actually pretty new for me too. So let’s just promise to be as open and honest with each other as we can, and trust each other. And love each other too, of course, I mean...that’s the big thing.” 

She smiled at him, held his hand. He was quiet for a moment, frowning a little, watching her face closely, trying to make a decision. 

“Tell me about Sean,” he said softly.

“What do you want to know?”

“What is he to you? How did you meet? He told me a little, not much. He said you saved him.”

Molly sighed. “It’s...kind of a strange story. Basically I...rescued him...when he was being beaten in an alley by some thugs.”

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He smirked. “Rescued him? All by yourself?”

“I told you it was strange. The men were very very drunk. I swing a mean handbag, especially if they’re staggering half blind from alcohol consumption.” She frowned. “But they had really hurt Sean. I was trying to call 999 but he kept grabbing my phone and saying ‘No hospitals!’ So I took him home with me and fixed him up as best I could.”

“Just like that? You took this strange man home with you, who had just been beaten by thugs?” Sherlock stared at her, his smirk becoming a frown. 

“I know it sounds crazy, Sherlock, but I couldn’t just leave him there. He was bleeding. He wouldn’t go to hospital, and...he looked so pathetic and he…” 

She stopped, her cheeks turning pink. “He looked so much like you.”

“I look pathetic?” 

“No, silly, he was pathetic. But you have to have noticed how much he resembles you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tilted his head back and stared at her. “No, actually, I hadn’t noticed it. Does he?”

He had noticed, of course. But listening to Molly’s story, something clicked in his memory and he wanted to hear more of her story. 

“He is a great deal like you. He’s different in a lot of ways too.”

“Did he ask you to take care of him or ask you if he could stay with you?”

Molly looked at him curiously. She understood his concern, his curiosity about Sean. She understood that he might be a bit jealous of the time she and Sean had been together. It wasn’t only curiosity and concern she saw in his face, however. 

“Sherlock, what aren’t you telling me? We’re supposed to be honest with each other now. Leaving things out is a form of dishonesty…”

“Did he ask or did you offer?” His eyes were narrowed and he looked at her steadily. 

“I offered, okay? He never asked me for anything. I took care of him and he paid me back by being one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” 

Sherlock finally looked away from her face. Her answer had been a bit huffy. She was becoming defensive. Obviously she trusted Sean completely, and he could understand why. He didn’t want to damage their friendship, if that’s what it really was. But she needed to know the whole story. 

He toyed with her fingers, wondering how to broach the subject. He didn’t want to risk this new intimacy with her. He had to be careful.

Finally he sighed, held her hands tightly in his. 

“Molly, I have to tell you something. It’s only...in the interest of being completely…I just feel you ought to know and obviously you don’t.”

Molly stared at him, a knot forming in her stomach. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, his expression had changed; he looked concerned, worried, even a bit sad. She bit her lip, steeled herself. “Okay, what?”

His voice was very soft when he answered.

“Molly, I’ve met Sean before. Before today.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly learns something about Sean; Sherlock smells a mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Usual disclaimer, I own nothing blah blah, mistakes my own, characters absurdly independent.

Mary closed the laptop and sat back in her chair. What she had read answered some questions about Sean, but then raised a few more. The ‘darkness’ she sensed in him was explained somewhat - anyone would have some dark places after going through what he did. But the current situation was just a little too pat, a bit too coincidental, and she was with Sherlock about coincidences; the universe was rarely so lazy. There had to be more to the story.

But what was she going to do about it? John would tell her to stay out of it, that it was none of her business. Her counter to that was that her friends were involved, which made it very much her business. Her first task would be to talk to Sherlock and find out how much, if anything, he knew. Then she could work out her next step, if there had to be one. 

She glanced at her watch, was shocked when she saw the time. Thank goodness John would be home tomorrow and could take Willa for a bit; she could sneak in a little nap. She picked up her tea cup and took it to the kitchen, then went upstairs to bed. 

*****

Molly stared at Sherlock, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Where...how did you meet Sean? When?” She was almost afraid to hear the answer. Please don’t let it be something awful, she thought. 

Sherlock tried to assess her state of mind before he continued. Being who he was and doing what he did, she probably was thinking the worst - that Sean was a criminal, that he had been involved with Sherlock in that capacity. He wasn’t sure if the truth would make her feel worse or better. But he owed it to her to be honest about it. 

“About ten years ago, I had a case and Sean was involved. I met him. We didn’t spend time together, I didn’t get to know him very well. But I recognised him, recognised his name when he texted me. He’s never mentioned anything to you about knowing who I am? About meeting me?”

Molly shook her head. She wasn’t sure how she should feel about this. She really needed more information. 

“Sherlock, what was the case about? How was Sean involved?”

Sherlock hesitated again, unsure if this information should come from him or from Sean. It was, after all, Sean’s story more than his. He took Molly’s hand, kissed her fingers. He was a bit worried. If Sean had kept this information from Molly, Sean had to have had a strong reason for it, given her involvement with Sherlock. He had trouble understanding what would necessitate withholding something like that. 

“It was a murder case - “

“Oh God…”

Sherlock sighed. “Sean was not the murderer, Molly. But he was an eyewitness. The problem was that the victim was his mother, and the murderer was his father.”

Molly squeezed her eyes shut. “ _Oh_ _God_!” She balled her hands against her mouth, fell over sideways on the bed. “How could he not _tell_ me something like that! _Why_ didn’t he _tell_ me!”

Sherlock had no idea what to do. He shushed her, lay down beside her, tried to pull her hands away from her face. 

“Molly, hush, listen...Molly....” He finally pulled her against him and held her tightly, while he rubbed her back and shoulders. She wasn’t crying, but she was breathing rapidly, and trembling a little. 

She finally pulled away from him slightly, stared into his eyes. ”Was his father caught? Did he go to prison?”

“He was caught and is serving a life sentence.” 

Molly sat up, pushed her hair back. She was quiet for a few minutes, idly toying with Sherlock’s fingers while she thought. 

“Sherlock, do you know what happened to Sean’s partner, David?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I believe I met him once, probably in court. He was there with Sean.”

“David was murdered about four years ago. Someone broke into their house and killed him. They think it was a hate crime. Nothing was stolen. David was an activist and he and Sean both had been harassed before the murder. There were several incidents.”

“Sean told you this?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would he tell you about David and not about his parents?” he murmured, more to himself than to Molly.

*****

The morning light was just brightening to pale grey when Sean looked up from his book. He’d never have thought he could get so engrossed in a clinical study of the similarities between addicts and serial killers. He found it fascinating. 

He set the book aside, stretched and yawned, glanced at his watch. It was almost seven. Breakfast would be good about now. He would let Molly have her morning with Sherlock, and then he would call her. 

As he put on his jacket, he looked around Sherlock’s flat again. It was messy but full of intriguing objects and a huge variety of books and magazines, both old and new. In an odd way it was comfortable. Not quite Sean’s style, but with a bit of work...He sighed, cut off that line of thought. Sherlock was well and surely taken. He wasn’t going to start that nonsense again. 

He turned off the lamp and pulled the door shut. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a door opened behind him. 

“Oh Sherlock, there you are! Could you please...OH! Who are you!” Mrs. Hudson backed away and covered her mouth with her hands. 

“I’m a friend of Sherlock’s. You must be Mrs. Hudson.” Sean smiled at her, trying his best not to look threatening. “Sherlock is with Molly, he said I could spend the night here. I was just leaving…”

Despite her surprise and caution, Mrs. Hudson’s curiosity got the best of her. “Molly? I remember her very well. Why is Sherlock with her?” As she spoke, she moved a step or two closer to Sean so that she could see him better. He looked so much like Sherlock, but a more relaxed and casual Sherlock. 

“Sherlock and Molly...had some things to talk about.” Sean wasn’t sure how much Mrs. Hudson knew about what was going on. 

“I always liked her. I wondered why Sherlock didn’t, you know, go out with her. But then Sherlock never went out with anybody unless it was for a case, so…” She stopped and peered at Sean. “You know, you look just like him from the back. I could have sworn...but he would have had his coat on I suppose. I think your hair might be just a shade lighter than his…how do you know Sherlock?” 

Sean chuckled, ran his hands through his hair. He could see that conversation with Mrs. Hudson would range over a wide variety of topics in a very short time. He also thought she knew a great deal more than she ever let on but was an expert at hiding it. 

“Sherlock and I met some years ago. For a case, actually.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t know why he told her that; he never told anyone else how he knew Sherlock. Not even Molly. “I know Molly, too, and the two of them needed...well, they needed some time together and she didn’t want to come here…”

“Why on earth not? It would have been lovely to see her again. I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Sherlock would...no, he wouldn’t would he.” She sighed. “Oh well. Sherlock is Sherlock. I always thought he and John, but then John went off with Mary...Do you know John too?” As she talked, she looked Sean up and down, taking the measure of him. He seemed like a nice young man, and he looked _so_ _much_ like Sherlock. “Would you like a cup of tea, dear? I was just putting the kettle on. I might have some biscuits left, too.”

Sean hesitated. He liked this woman. Underneath her practiced prattling he could tell she was a shrewd observer. He wasn’t sure he should get involved with any more of Sherlock’s people, but he was curious about them and how they fit into Sherlock’s life. He would be leaving soon anyway.

“I’d love a cup of tea.” Sean smiled at Mrs. Hudson, who smiled back and led the way into her flat.

“You’re not grumpy like Sherlock is in the morning…” 

*****

 

The idea of showering with another person had been slightly abhorrent to Sherlock until now. Just the idea of a naked Molly with water sliding down her body made his cock twitch. By the time they actually were in the shower, he was hard, and Molly - delighted by the idea of sliding soapy hands all over Sherlock’s body - was more than willing to experiment with him. It wasn’t as easy as they had initially pictured it.

Finding positions in a slippery shower stall, especially with such a discrepancy in height, proved to be problematic. He wanted to just lift her up and set her on his cock but keeping his balance and the slick floor of the shower made that risky. He couldn’t simply bend her over and take her from behind either (although that idea made him twitch and get even harder) without lifting her a bit (slippery floor) or squatting a bit (hard on the legs), and neither idea was safe at all. In the end, given the size of the shower (large), he threw a towel on the floor of the stall, turned the shower head towards the wall a bit more, and laid Molly down on the towel (to keep her from sliding all over the place as he pounded into her.) The echo effect of the shower on Molly’s moans and cries and his own harsher exclamations served to enhance everything and he was astounded at the intensity - and very glad he’d gotten over his squeamishness about showering with another person. 

After they were dried and combed, they dressed - at first each of them trying to watch the other while getting arms and legs in the right place and buttoning things without looking. In the end, they nearly dressed each other, which was almost as much fun as undressing each other, but not quite.

Sherlock didn’t think he’d smiled so much in all his past years on earth combined. His body was relaxed. For the first time in over a year, his mind was clear and sharp. The the heaviness of worry and the pain of loss had evaporated. 

And Molly was his. 

He knew there would be times ahead that would not be easy, as they adjusted to each other and found their way into their own version of a relationship - a word that now had a pleasant connotation in his mind. He also knew that he would try anything, would be willing to _do_ anything, to be with Molly. At the moment, he believed he could overcome any obstacle the universe could throw in his way if the end result was having her with him.

Dressed and armed with love that danced in the very cells of their bodies, they set out to face the day and any problems they might encounter - and breakfast.

Sherlock looked forward to meeting Sean again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think so that I can know whether or not to yell at my unruly characters. 
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr: ashockinglackofsatin


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a bit more about Sean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for taking so long to update this. Been struggling with a flare up (chronic illness) aggravated by wet weather. The usual disclaimers apply, these characters are not mine, etc. Except for Sean, he's mine and they can't have him. Reviews, comments, rants, songs, mathematical equations, etc., are requested, encouraged and loved. I adore hearing from you!

Returning to Baker Street with Molly - _his_ Molly - in tow, was a bit like entering the place for the first time. Everything looked different, felt different. Seeing familiar things with new eyes, after such a dramatic change in one’s life, was like being reborn, only this time with an adult’s sensibilities in place of an infant’s. Everything was new but not strange. It was simply different. He wondered if Molly was having a similar experience. 

They found the flat empty. Molly had just pulled out her mobile to text Sean when they heard voices at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson - and Sean. Molly and Sherlock looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Apparently Sean had charmed his way into Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, and from the sound of her giggles, into her heart as well. Molly smiled. She was not surprised; Sean had that effect on people. Sherlock, however, was not so accepting of Sean’s move into his territory. Sherlock understood how silly this feeling was; Mrs. Hudson was not “territory” - but she was his friend, almost like his mother, and, unlike Molly, Sherlock didn’t trust Sean so completely. After his discussion with Molly that morning, he wasn’t sure he trusted Sean at all.

Molly had already gone out the door to call to Sean. Sherlock watched her, noting her eagerness to see him; she was fairly bouncing with excitement. In spite of her initial reaction to Sean’s keeping quiet about the fact that he and Sherlock had met before, she didn’t seem to be upset by it now, not in the least. She was all welcoming smiles and chattiness as Sean and Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs. 

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock watched Molly greet Sean with a hug. As Sean bent to kiss her on the cheek, his gaze went over her shoulder to Sherlock. Sean raised his head and nodded to Sherlock. Sherlock turned and went back into the flat. 

Mrs. Hudson had followed Sean up the stairs and now stood with him and Molly, giggling and gushing about how glad she was to see Molly and wasn’t Sean just so much like Sherlock, in certain ways, of course, not in others, and was Molly going to be staying in London...and on and on. Molly and Sean both laughed, trying to get a word in edgewise. Finally Molly grabbed Sean’s hand and led him into the flat. Mrs. Hudson followed along, still babbling. 

Sherlock was standing at the window, gazing out, his back to the room. He was having trouble assessing his feelings about this whole business. The joy and excitement of being with Molly warred with his need to detach and examine the situation with Sean. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing deep and slow. He could do this. He wasn’t going to fall back into the trap of believing he could not have both a relationship with Molly and his work at the same time. Sean was a mystery - a small one - but not necessarily a problem. Right now, his priority had to remain Molly; being with her, cementing their newfound closeness had to be his main focus. He could deal with The Sean Thing later. He lifted his head, relaxed his shoulders, tried to make his expression as neutral as possible as he turned to the others - only to find Sean watching him closely and seriously. 

Molly and Mrs. Hudson withdrew to the kitchen to make coffee - Molly declaring that she needed coffee instead of tea since she hadn’t had much sleep last night. Sherlock watched them go, then looked at Sean, waiting. 

Sean sighed. “I can see that we need to talk.”

Sherlock said nothing, went to his chair and sat. Sean followed, dropped into John’s chair, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice low and soft, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. 

“I didn’t tell Molly about my parents because I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me.”

Sherlock’s voice was equally low. “And yet you told her about your partner’s murder.”

Sean winced slightly. “That was altogether different. It was partly the reason why - “

Molly and Mrs. Hudson came into the room carrying two mugs of coffee each. Molly smiled at Sherlock as she brought one of the mugs to him, then sat on the floor at his feet, her back against the chair, leaning slightly against his legs. Mrs. Hudson placed Sean’s mug on the table next to John’s chair, then pulled the desk chair up and sat down. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled around at everyone. “Oh, it’s so nice to have people here again! I don’t mind saying, it’s been quite lonely these past two years. And quiet. I never thought I’d miss the noise you two made all the time, Sherlock, you and John - “

“I’m sure we can liven things up for you again soon.” Sherlock sipped his coffee, refraining from rolling his eyes. Molly giggled, Sean smiled. 

“Sean was telling me how you and he met, Molly. That must have been something to see, you wading in swinging your handbag, knocking those two bullies about!” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “You must have scared them half to death!”

Sherlock frowned. He didn’t find anything in the story the least bit amusing. He opened his mouth to say so, and was interrupted by Sean.

“Those men were so drunk I’m surprised they could manage to land a hit on me at all; they could barely stand. If I hadn’t been so wasted myself, they probably wouldn’t have done any damage.”

Molly chimed in. “They did do damage, though, quite a lot of it. I still can’t believe I let you talk me out of calling an ambulance.”

“It looked much worse than it was. You were able to patch me up just fine.”

“Stitch you up, you mean. And wrap you up. Cuts bleeding everywhere, two black eyes, a couple of cracked ribs, a sprained wrist. You were a mess.”

Sean grinned at her. “And you did a beautiful job with all of it. My tiny savior.”

Sherlock was still frowning. He wasn’t sure if it was the story and Molly’s part in it that bothered him so much or if it was Sean’s easy familiarity with her. It didn’t matter if Sean was gay; he had been close, very close, to Molly for more than a year, and Sherlock was jealous of their time together as well as the emotional intimacy they’d shared. He didn’t think this was unreasonable. 

Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Sean chatted for a good while. There were stories about Bali, in which Sherlock was intensely interested while not really wanting to hear them, and stories about Molly’s transformation, which, Sherlock noticed, embarassed her a little. While he watched and listened, he savored the feel of Molly sitting there with him, her warmth against his legs, hearing her soft voice. Once in a while she would turn her head and look back at him with a smile, and his heart would begin that quickened thump thump again. Several times he stopped himself from reaching down and stroking the back of her head; he still wasn’t sure if she would appreciate that kind of thing from him while they were with others, despite the intimacy of last night. There was actually quite a lot he wasn’t sure of yet.

The conversation finally slowed and Mrs. Hudson took the opportunity to say goodbye; she had a lunch date to keep. She kissed everyone on the cheek - even Sherlock, despite his slight cringe - and hurried downstairs. Molly stood and stretched and Sean gathered up coffee mugs to take to the kitchen. 

Sean wondered how he could gracefully escape. He knew what Molly wanted; she wanted him and Sherlock to “get to know each other” and to be - well, friendly, if not friends. He was getting the idea that might not be possible, at least not yet. Sherlock had too many questions. At the moment, Molly was too blissful to be thinking about her own questions, though he knew she would have some. 

Sean glanced through the kitchen door over his shoulder. Molly had climbed onto Sherlock’s lap and was kissing him soundly. Sherlock’s hands were locked around her waist. After a moment he heard Molly’s sweet giggle followed by Sherlock’s deep laugh. 

Turn on the water, Sean, he told himself. Drown it out. He sighed, turned on the faucet, and rinsed out the mugs. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for them. He was over-the-moon happy, for both of them. But he was going to miss Molly so much. She saw him as helping her, but the truth was, she was the one helping him. She had opened him up and torn him apart and then put him back together again. She was his friend, his companion, his heart. The thought of being without her cut through him like a blade, made him want to weep and rail against the workings of the universe. He would be alone again. 

Molly poked her head through the doorway. “Sean, how about lunch? Or did Mrs. Hudson stuff you too full of goodies downstairs?” 

“Actually, my sweet, I have some business to take care of on my own. Could we make a date for dinner this evening instead?” Sean tried his best to keep his voice light, his smile uncrooked. He was not going to spoil her happiness with his own mopey mood. 

After looking back over her shoulder and consulting briefly with Sherlock, Molly nodded at him. “That’s fine. Shall I call or text you in a few hours then? Or you can call us…”

Us. The “us” didn’t include him now. “Why don’t you let me call you when I’m done. It shouldn’t take too long…”

“Okay. Sherlock and I are going, then.” Molly came into the kitchen and hugged him from behind. “I love you, Sean.” She rubbed her nose against this shoulder then went back into the lounge. A minute later he heard them clumping down the stairs, then the door closing. 

Sean slowly put the mugs on the table. He wandered into the lounge and looked again at Sherlock’s mess. Seeing the skull on the mantel piece, he went to it and rubbed his hand over it, feeling the cool bone dome. This was not how he pictured Sherlock living ten years ago. 

It was probably much worse than this, he thought, and smiled to himself.

*****

Sean had carried the image in his mind for all those years, how Sherlock had looked striding into the courthouse, straight and proud, arrogant. So very sure of himself. Sherlock had glanced at him and David, and nodded briefly as he pushed through the door. 

David had been stunned. 

“That’s him? Sean, do you know how much -”

“I look like him, yes.”

“My God, you could be brothers! How strange is that? What do you know about him?” David had been off and running with the questions then. He was disappointed when Sean had no answers for him. 

“David, I don’t know anything about him. We only met briefly at the...the nick. God, I can’t even say it. It was awful.” 

Remembering that time was like being dragged over broken glass except for the memories of Sherlock. 

 

_Ten_ _Years_ _Ago_

He had found them in the dining hall, after his nightmarish drive through the rain, after carefully stepping through the broken front door and calling for her softly. He had left David screaming and crying after him in their doorway, begging him not to go. 

“Mum? Are you here?”

There’d been no answer. Standing in the doorway of the huge room, after wandering through the house, he’d barely registered the scene: His mother cowering against the far wall, his father a few yards away with the gun in his hand. His mother was silent, not pleading, not crying, not screaming. Just standing there against the wall, staring at her husband. 

His father knew he was there. The older man had been drinking, of course, he was always drinking, but his hand was steady, the gun never wavered from its target. Neither his mother or his father turned to look at him. 

“Dad...w-what are you doing?” he’d said softly. 

“Go away, you piece of shit. This is not your home.” His father still did not look at him, only stared at his mother. He didn’t even seem particularly angry. 

He wasn’t sure if he should speak or not. He hated his father. His father hated him. It had been that way for as long as he could remember, his mother caught in the middle, trying to appease both of them. He’d finally left at sixteen, staying in touch with his mother with a phone he’d bought her that she kept hidden, sneaking to see her when his father was away. He’d seen bruises on her arms, angry welts. Once she’d had a black eye. She always had an excuse, explaining everything away. He knew better but she wouldn’t listen to him. Once he’d asked her why she didn’t leave. Her eyes had gone dark as she turned away. “I owe him,” she’d said and that was the end of it. She wouldn’t talk about it at all after that. 

In spite of how bad things were, as terrible as he knew his father could be, he’d never thought it would come to this. 

“Dad. Please. Let’s just talk…”

“Shut up. You have no say in this.”

“You’re my father…”

“Shut up! Just shut up! YOU...ARE...NOT...MY...SON!” The vehemence of the words made his father’s hand shake. 

His mother looked at him then, and he felt ill, felt the acid roil in his stomach. Her eyes spoke volumes of regret, sadness...and resignation. He opened his mouth to speak to her and she closed her eyes. When the red suddenly bloomed on her chest, he remembered no sound, as if the red had swallowed up every noise in the room. He stood helplessly, silently, as another red flower appeared on her stomach, a third on her shoulder. She slid down the wall, and he stared at the wet red trail she left as if it would speak to him and explain what had happened. 

As the room began to fade, he saw his father drop the gun on the floor. The last thing he heard as everything narrowed to a pinpoint, before the pinpoint itself disappeared, and his head met the floor, was his father laughing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More very soon, I promise! Thanks so much for reading; it brightens my day so much to know that someone actually likes this!


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock watched Molly finish off the last bites of her lamb rogan josh, his lips quirked in a half smile. She looked up at him as she swallowed, a tiny dab of sauce at the corner of her mouth. 

“What?” she mumbled around the food as she swallowed.

“You must have a very high metabolic rate. The amount of food you can consume at one sitting is astonishing, yet it appears you weigh a few pounds less than you did a year ago.” He reached over and wiped away the bit of sauce from her mouth with his thumb, then lightly trailed the thumb over her lower lip. 

“I get quite a bit of exercise.” She took a sip of water, looked down at her lap.

His voice lowered, took on the rich, velvety, seductive tone that sent her body into paroxysms of desire, her mind stalled and spinning in circles around one thought. 

“No doubt the strenuous dancing contributes to a fast metabolism. I’m sure the addition of certain...other...activities will quicken it even more.” The smile had taken on slightly darker overtones; the color of his eyes brightened as his pupils dilated. 

Molly stared at him, transfixed, her cheeks flushing to a delightful rosy hue. The flush underneath the soft golden brown of her skin was especially fetching, giving her an air that was both exotic and innocent. 

How could he turn a simple lunch into something so unbelievably erotic? Molly pressed her thighs together under the table, trying not to squirm. 

“Will you dance for me, Molly? I’d love to see more. It was very...stimulating.” 

He’s doing this on purpose, she thought, he’s _trying_ to make me...She stopped the thought, gazed back at him. Yes. He was doing it on purpose, but there was no ulterior motive. There was nothing sly or manipulative about the look on his face. The desire in his eyes was genuine. 

“I’ll dance for you anytime you like, Sherlock.” She watched him as he tilted his head back, blinked rapidly, took in a slow deep breath. “Only for you.”

*****

Sean wandered down the short hall to the bathroom, which was amazingly clean compared to the rest of the flat. There was no clutter. Towels were hung neatly on racks, toiletries hidden away in the cupboard behind the mirror over the sink. The fixtures gleamed. He smiled as he took it all in. This was a whole other side to Sherlock, one that jibed with his meticulous appearance. His personal spaces would almost have to be immaculate. 

Sean hesitated a few seconds before moving into the bedroom. The contrast here from the rest of the flat was equally stark. The furnishings were simple, surfaces uncluttered, decor neat and unfussy. His eyes flicked to the wardrobe and he hesitated again. There wouldn’t be anything in there that would help him. He returned to the bathroom, opened the cupboard. 

On the bottom shelf was a comb and brush. The comb was clean. He picked up the brush and examined it. There...wedged into the bristles near the handle: a single short dark hair. He gently pulled it free, carefully laid it on the ledge of the sink, then pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, opened it and took out a tiny plastic ziplock bag. He put the hair in the bag, the bag back into the wallet, pocketed the wallet again. Brush back on the shelf, cupboard door closed. He looked at himself in the mirror, sighed. He hoped the hair would be enough. He really didn’t want to steal Sherlock’s toothbrush and he didn’t relish having to examine everything in the flat for another sample.

He returned to the lounge, took one last look around at the oddly comfortable mess, then left, pulling the door shut behind him. With Mrs. Hudson off on her lunch date, he made it onto the street scott free, and hailed a taxi.

*****

Mary frowned as she quickly circled the room, grabbing whatever was out of place and either putting it where it belonged or tossing it into the basket by the door to be taken elsewhere. Her movements were quick, efficient, almost automatic. Willa was asleep, John was at work. She was tired; she could use a nap, but she needed to be moving, doing something. 

She had texted Sherlock four times now, with no answer. She’d tried calling him twice; it went straight to voicemail. The calls were a long shot anyway, he rarely returned calls. Logically, she knew he was probably with Molly. She was loathe to interrupt them, but at the same time she felt antsy about getting in touch with Sherlock. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she always trusted her gut, and her gut was telling her they needed to talk.

First off, they needed to clear things up between them. She knew she had damaged the trust they’d had; even though she’d been sworn to secrecy, even though she’d not been aware of the depth of Sherlock’s attachment to Molly, he’d seen it as a betrayal. She was pretty sure he’d get over it in time, but they needed to talk things out to facilitate the acceptance. She wasn’t at all comfortable with the distance between them right now. 

Then she wanted to talk to him about Sean. She didn’t even know if he was aware she had met Sean. This was where her gut came into play again. Although she didn’t feel any threat from Sean, or any sinister intent, she knew absolutely that there was something more going on there than a simple coincidence concerning both Sean’s resemblance to Sherlock and Sean’s attachment to Molly. In the course of her research on Sean’s background, she had been astonished to see Sherlock’s name come up in connection to the murder case involving Sean ten years ago. It was more than likely that Sean and Sherlock had met then. She wondered if Molly knew. Sherlock would surely have remembered. Sean hadn’t said a word about ever having met Sherlock before. It was possible that he thought it was none of her business, or that he simply hadn’t thought about it. Somehow, she didn’t think either was the case. 

She sat in a chair, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Then she dropped the cloth she’d been holding, pulled her phone out of her back pocket, and dashed off another text. 

*****

They ambled along the pavement, talking occasionally, stopping to gaze into shop windows, or to “discuss” a point Sherlock was trying to make, which most often involved Sherlock expounding on it and Molly listening patiently. Sherlock held Molly’s hand, his gloves for once stuffed into his pockets so that he could feel her skin touching his. The day was overcast - at least for the moment - but any dreary drizzle was holding off and it was not terribly cold. Molly wasn’t sure it mattered what the weather was, as long as she was at Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock had never suspected that this simple activity, walking aimlessly with no set destination, no agenda, could be so pleasurable or fulfilling. He stole glances at Molly as they walked, amazed at the sensations that washed through him when he saw her smile, or saw her eyes light up at some trivial item in a window, or when she became serious about a subject they talked about and that little frown line appeared between her brows. His entire body seemed to respond to the slightest shift in her expression and he wondered at this while simultaneously experiencing either a swift rush of euphoria or a deep satisfaction. It was obvious that this whole “feelings” area was going to be adventurous to explore and that he had just made the tiniest dent in it. He also found it odd that he had very little fear of it so far, that he was eager to investigate all the permutations. With his acceptance of Molly and his intense attachment to her, he had lost all his abhorrence, all his caution and reluctance where feeling - and relationships - were concerned. What was more astonishing was that he was willing to put his examination of the whys and hows on hold for the time being, and simply experience. He was completely caught by the sensuality of it all, as well as the mystery of it.

Molly seemed to accept all of it without question, seemed to exhibit no qualms or hesitation, as if this tidal flood of emotion was a normal, everyday occurrence for her. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps she simply had more capacity to hold it all without being overwhelmed. 

All he knew was that he never wanted to let go of her hand, or not be able to see the wondrous variety of expressions that appeared on her face. She was as absorbing and exciting as any case he had ever encountered and he never wanted it to end. 

A snippet of a pop song blared at them from the open window of a passing car, and it jolted him. 

_You make my heart beat too fast_

_You make me want this to last…_

Yes, he thought, that’s exactly it, and he grinned, and felt like laughing out loud.

*****

It didn’t take Sean long to gather up his things from the bedroom at the hotel. Unlike Molly, he didn’t strew his clothes around, didn’t feel a need to claim territory by putting personal objects in it. He closed his suitcase, looked around the room. The bed was still rumpled; the room smelled like sex. He had noticed a wet towel lying on the floor of the shower stall. The staff of the hotel were under strict instructions not to touch his rooms until he asked. Clean towels and such were left just inside the door each morning, but other than that no one entered until given permission. Obviously Molly and Sherlock had enjoyed themselves, and he was glad. It was about time. 

Regardless of his sadness at the thought of being without Molly in the future, he had had no reservations about getting her together with Sherlock. The two of them belonged together. It was sad that it took them so long to accept that, but he knew it sometimes happened. It was only when they were both almost forced to change that it was possible, and he knew how reluctant people were to change. Even the good ones. Sometimes people were willing to die rather than give up their illusions. 

He set his suitcase by the door and went to the desk for a pen and paper. The note would have to be brief but he couldn’t go into detail at this point. He took the note and placed it on a pillow in the bedroom where one or the other of them would be sure to find it. Then he took his suitcase, and with a last glance around the lounge, closed the door behind him.

*****

They wandered until late afternoon, until Sherlock was so full of wanting that he couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled her to him in front of a shop with a window full of pastries. Her eyes were shining as she looked up at him, her hands flat against his chest. She could feel his heart beating under her hand. Tenderness washed over her, so deep it startled her. The fragility of human beings always touched her. Her work had brought it home to her daily. For all his strength, for all the dynamic forcefulness of him, his extraordinary presence, it would take so little to simply wipe him off this earth, to still his voice forever, to eradicate this incredible being once and for all. 

Suddenly she was shaking, and clung to him, fighting tears. He held her, bent his head down to hers, whispered, “What is it? Molly, what’s wrong?” 

She shook her head, not wanting to admit to him what she was thinking. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel. Now.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I want to go back to Baker Street. It’s time you were in _my_ bed.”

He pulled her to the kerb and hailed a taxi.

At Baker Street, he fairly tossed the money at the cabbie, grabbed Molly’s hand and pulled her out of the taxi. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the door, finally shoving it open with a grunt, and hauling Molly behind him up the stairs. He pulled her through the door and then closed and locked it, pulled her along behind him to lock the door in the kitchen, and down the short hall to his room, where he kicked the door shut, turned and pulled her roughly against him, his mouth finding hers in a hard kiss. 

She pushed him away, laughing, and shrugged out of her coat, leaving it on the floor. He did the same with his Belstaff, then reached for her again. She danced out of the way, kicked off her shoes, began undoing the button of her trousers. 

Sherlock stood still, breath coming hard and fast, and watched her slip out of her trousers, watched her unbutton her silk blouse and shrug it off. She stood in front of him in a silky peach colored camisole and matching pants, the colors playing up her golden brown skin in the low light, lending her a fragile, delicate look like an exotic orchid. He slowly moved the few steps toward her, cupped her face in his hands, whispered her name, then kissed her urgently. His tongue pushed between her lips, searching, demanding, before he pulled away. He unbuttoned his jacket, shrugged it off, tossed it to the side. Then he bent and scooped her up, climbed onto the bed on his knees and laid her down. He sat beside her and pulled off his shoes and socks, then lay down next to her, pulling her against him tightly, roughly, his hands clenching the silky camisole, fingers scraping her skin. 

Molly felt a shiver go through him as he pressed her body against his, then another. 

“Sherlock, you’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“Stop.”

“I can’t.”

She raised herself up on an elbow, earnestly searching his face. His eyes were dark, strangely shining in the dim light of the room, his expression tense. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He raised a hand as if to touch her, left it up, inches away from her shoulder, still shaking. 

“Sherlock, what?”

He swallowed thickly. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. The...intensity...I thought -” He stopped, swallowed again, rolled slightly away from her onto his back. 

Molly frowned, still searching his face. He was afraid again but this was a different kind of fear than before. 

She stroked the side of his face with her fingers, laid her hand against his cheek. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, but he didn’t touch her. His hands lay limp at his sides. Molly laid her head on his shoulder, slipped her arm across his chest, held him, and just waited. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, a bit quavery, hesitant.

“I wanted...I wanted you so badly, I was afraid…” He stopped, swallowed again. “I was afraid I might hurt you. It felt so...so completely out of control. I’m sorry.” 

She raised her head again, then propped it on her hand, leaving one hand on his chest. 

“One. You wouldn’t hurt me, Sherlock. You can’t hurt me. If you did all I’d have to do is say so and you’d stop. Two. That feeling is...not unusual at all. People feel that way all the time before sex, but they don’t lose control, they don’t hurt each other.” She frowned. “At least most people don’t. _You_ wouldn’t.”

He opened his eyes, turned his head slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” She sat up then, turning sideways to face him. “Yes, I _do_ know that. I know _you_.”

He was looking at her as if he expected her to scream at him and bolt from the room any second.

“God, Sherlock. Do you really think you can’t control yourself? That you would actually _hurt_ me? Honestly, this is just...ridiculous. I get that you’re not used to this. The intensity might be a little scary at first, but...seriously…?”

He stared at her, brows drawn into a frown, thinking. He truly had been afraid of hurting her. The thoughts and images going through his mind...he’d never experienced anything like that before. It was savage and primitive, not anything like he’d ever thought himself to be - not anything like he’d ever thought _sex_ to be, unless it was with That Woman. It went beyond just wanting her; he’d wanted to overpower her, to _own_ her. To possess her completely. 

He ran his hands through his hair, looked away from her. _Would_ he have lost control? He’d spent his life controlling himself…

Something clicked in his brain. _I’ve spent my life being_ incontrol _. Controlling not just myself and my feelings, my thoughts, but, as much as possible, everything around me._

Molly watched him silently, letting him think. She knew he would come to terms with this. All things considered, she shouldn’t have been surprised that this happened. Feeling so out of control must have been _terrifying_ for him. She knew how the intensity of sexual want could affect people; hell, she knew how it affected her sometimes. He had been out of touch with himself sexually for so long...Sympathy and affection welled up in her, and she had to stop herself from touching him. 

After a few minutes, he looked at her, reached for her hand. 

“You must think I’m an idiot.”

She smiled at him. “Sometimes. But not right now. I just think...I think this is all very new to you and it takes a bit of time to get used to it.” 

He nodded. “I think you’re going to have to be very patient with me for a while.”

“I can be patient, Sherlock. I know how to do that.” Her voice was very soft.

“Yes, you do.” He let go her hand, reached up to stroke her cheek with his fingers. “I’m sorry, Molly. For so many things.”

Molly placed her hand over his, pressed it to her face. 

“I’m sorry too. Sherlock, I trust you. Completely. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I _know_ you. I’m glad that you could tell me what was happening. That’s a big step for us.”

He gave her a little smile, then suddenly reached for her and pulled her over on top of him, making her squeal. He wrapped his arms around her, rolled again til he was lying on top of her. He kneed her legs apart, settled between them, rocking back and forth a bit, finding the comfortable position. Her eyes were deep warm pools and he wanted to get lost in them. The feel of her under him was exciting, but another emotion wafted through the intense physical desire. It thrilled him in a quite different way, seemed to thread through the wanting, lending it depth and color and dimension it didn’t have alone. Watching her soft smile, feeling her fingers trace the lines of his face, then slip into his hair to twine a curl around her finger - he’d wondered before what it would actually feel like, the strange, compelling state that people talked about. Now he knew. He knew exactly what it was, and what it felt like.

He kissed her, as gently as he could, willing everything he felt for her into that sweet, soft brush of his lips over hers. 

“I love you, Molly Hooper.”

She closed her eyes, still smiling. When she opened them, he saw tears but he wasn’t alarmed. For once, he knew what they were about. 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered and pulled his head down again for another kiss, deeper this time, allowing the tenderness to sink into the desire, enhancing it, enlarging it, making it all that much more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sean belongs to me. All other characters belong to their respective creators. This is a work of fan fiction, I get no monetary profit from it, just lots of fun and evil thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Sean's story...and some of Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, please forgive mistakes. Apologies for the delay in updating. I am now officially one year older and mourning...erm, celebration ensued, necessitating recovery time.

It had finally begun to rain. Sean sat in the taxi, leaning against the door, worrying his lower lip with his thumb, staring out at the watery tarmac where his jet sat waiting in the dark. The cabbie was patient; he wasn’t the one paying the fare. If his passenger wanted to sit for hours staring out the window, who was he to question it?

This felt wrong. Leaving this way, without saying goodbye face to face, with such a paltry excuse for an explanation...it didn’t sit right with him. He loved Molly too much to simply disappear like this after all they’d been through together. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was a different horse altogether. Sherlock...there was so much Sean wanted to say to him. But Sherlock was intimidating. He’d thought he was able to stand up to just about anyone; Sherlock had proved him wrong. Seeing Sherlock again after all these years had broken something loose in him. There were things he had to know, to understand, questions to which he needed answers. He wasn’t sure that Sherlock would feel the same way. Sean suspected that Sherlock hadn’t entirely put aside all the antipathy about his relationship with Molly, all the time they had spent together. Still, his own cowardice about dealing with Sherlock was no excuse for leaving Molly this way. 

Sean made a decision, pulled out his phone. Two quick calls, then he instructed the cabbie to take him back to the Milestone. He would say a proper goodbye to Molly, and deal with Sherlock as best he could. 

*****

It was Molly’s favorite time of day, the hour just past dinner, when the night was just beginning. The rain made a pleasant patter against the windows, her tummy was full of a delicious meal, and Sherlock was rattling around in the kitchen making coffee. She was curled up in John’s chair - which she dearly hoped could soon be renamed Molly’s chair - and was looking forward to spending the rest of the night catching up with Sherlock, and beginning to look ahead to a future with him. 

Everything was falling into place so easily, despite the emotional whirlwind of the last few days. Sherlock had pulled her into his life wholeheartedly in a very short time. He had apparently abandoned all his old ideas about emotional entanglements and relationships. She had thought that if she ever moved back to London that she would pick up where she left off: moving on with her career, perhaps somewhere other than Bart’s, renewing old relationships and finding new ones. She had given up thinking - or hoping - that Sherlock could ever be a part of that. But here she was, comfortably ensconced in 221B, no thoughts about career or other people, contemplating what her life would be like living with Sherlock. She smiled and stretched. Sean had been right to bring her back here and insist that she deal with Sherlock once and for all. 

Sherlock brought her a mug of coffee, sat down in his chair across from her with his own mug. A wave of warmth and contentment washed through her, watching him settle and cross his legs, sip his coffee. Along with the contentment, however, was a frisson of excitement as his eyes met hers and his mouth quirked in that delicious half smile. Just seeing him, watching him move - ordinary, mundane - was enough to push her heart into a gallop. She would never tire of simply looking at him, the amazed enjoyment like looking at a particularly compelling work of art. Everything around him seemed brighter, more exciting, more alive. His energy infected the very air in the room, and lifted her into an entirely different plane of existence. It had always been this way, since the day they had first met. She’d never had any desire to _have_ him, to claim or stake ownership, the way so many women did; she’d only wanted to be _with_ him. Her inability to express this had been, in large part, why she had been so awkward with him for so long. It was Sean who had helped her understand it all - and overcome it. 

***** 

Mary kissed the top of Willa’s little head as John held her, inhaling the sweet powdery scent, then touched Willa’s round baby cheek. John watched, smiling, filling with pride and love for his two girls, as he always did when he looked at them. Mary smiled back at him, gave him a quick kiss. 

“You’re sure about this? You don’t mind?” Mary cocked her head at him, concern damping the sparkle in her eyes a tiny bit.

“If it will give you some peace of mind and help get to the bottom of things, no, I don’t mind. Just be careful. I still think it’s none of your business but that’s never stopped you before, so…” John gave her a mock frown.

“Oh poop and nonsense. You know you want answers just as much as me, and I know you’re concerned about Sherlock and Molly.”

“Yeah, all right. Just...try not to get in a fight with Sherlock. I’d hate to see him wind up in hospital again.” 

Mary laughed. “No worries, my love. Molly will probably be there, she’ll keep a lid on things.” 

She gave him another kiss, waggled her fingers bye-bye at Willa, and dashed out the door into the rain. 

*****

By the time the taxi arrived at the hotel, the rain had lightened to a misty drizzle, haloing the city lights and lending a slightly chilly but magical air to the city. This was what Sean loved and missed about London. Between the unpredictable weather, the often mysterious fog, and the buzz of people dashing around at all hours, the air was always electrified, as though anything could happen at any moment. He tipped the cabbie generously and ran into the hotel, hoping that Molly and Sherlock had not yet found the note he’d left. 

The note was where he’d left it on the pillow and it didn’t look like anyone had been there since he’d left. He breathed a sigh of relief, ordered some food and coffee from room service, and sat down to think. He had a feeling he’d be doing a good bit of talking later, and he wanted to be very clear about what he said, as the atmosphere would almost certainly be charged.

His thoughts went back to the night he and Molly had met. There was humor there, yes, but also a great deal of pain. He didn’t know how much Molly had told Sherlock. He was fairly sure that no one had gotten the full story as yet. Mary probably knew more about it than anyone so far, thanks to the slightly edited version he’d given her. 

_He wasn’t sure how long he’d been drunk, or with which pills exactly he’d loaded himself. He was staggering, slurring, probably argumentative. He had flashes of bulling his way through people in the crowded pub, demanding more drink, and being told he’d had enough and to get out before the police were called. He knew he’d probably waved a wad of money before they’d managed to steer him out the door. The next thing he knew, he was being yanked sideways into an alley, and was throwing futile, sloppy punches at men who were equally as drunk, and who seemed angry at much more than a sad, falling down fool with some money in his pockets. He took most of the damage, of course. He could barely stand up, let alone fight. Although he thought his assailants were nearly as bad off as he was, there were at least two of them, and he sensed they were much larger._

_He was on the ground, folded up trying to protect his gut from heavy boots, when there was a shriek and the men who were pummeling him left off their efforts to make him into pudding and seemed to vanish. The next thing he knew there were hands rolling him over, a sweet voice asking him where he was hurt and cooing about an ambulance. He managed to grab a very thin and fragile feeling wrist and insist that no ambulance be called. The sweet voice tried to argue with him as he struggled to sit up. He nearly passed out at the pain in his ribs and wrist and head, and was violently ill, vomiting up at least a night’s worth of alcohol and who knew what else, worsening the pain even more. He ended up on his side next to his own sick, crying and holding his gut with his good hand, vaguely aware that his savior was talking with someone on her phone._

_He needed a hospital, he knew that. He just couldn’t face it. On top of the annoyance (and humiliation) of giving his story to both hospital staff and probably police, there was the likely added annoyance and humiliation of dealing with a load of press anxious for any and all fodder about people with money and their overindulgences. His family was well-known;_ he _was well known. It wouldn’t take much for the tabloids to swarm. He didn’t care personally; there was little they could do to him. But, he told himself, there were others with whom he was involved who didn’t need the fallout he could bring down on them - employees and their families, attorneys, managers - none of them needed or deserved it._

_His conscience was a very tiny nagging voice tucked away in a closet inside his head._

_Truth be told, for a long while now, concern for others was not his main focus. What he wanted -_ all _he wanted - was numbness, forgetfulness, any kind of limbo he could find. If alcohol and chemicals could do it, fine. He’d take it. There in that alley, broken, bloody, sick, and embarrassed beyond enduring, with this soft-voiced angel doing her best to take care of him (while he alternately fought her and collapsed like a rag doll, forcing her to mostly drag him to a taxi), he found himself begging her to leave him there for the brutes to finish him off. He didn’t feel that he was worth saving. If he died there, at least everyone could say he was mugged and died in the attack. There would be some who wouldn’t believe that, but the general public would accept it. He didn’t see any future for himself, at least not one that was free of this ever-present anguish that was swallowing him bit by pathetic bit._

_Sometime during the taxi ride (she, whoever she was, had had to argue with the cabbie and then promise him extra cash before he would let them in his silly car) he passed out. She later told him that the cabbie had helped her drag him into her flat, costing her even more. A Good Samaritan, this cabbie was not._

_He woke, climbing up through layers of greyness and varying degrees of pain, to her carefully dabbing his face, trying to wash away some of the blood. His wrist was taped and his ribs were wrapped. She told him later that he’d actually been conscious while she did this, but he didn’t remember. It seemed that every inch of his body was screaming in pain, and she dosed him with some paracetamol, which didn’t help much, but she was afraid to give him anything else, as she didn’t know what else he already had in his system; too much alcohol at the very least. He gave her what he thought was a smile and tried to tell her it didn’t matter but lost consciousness again._

_The next time he woke there was light shining through the window across the room from him. He was lying on a sofa in a cosily cluttered room. He tried to assess his condition, moving as little as possible. Movement made his head feel like it was going to explode. He assumed he was concussed. He ached everywhere; taking a deep breath was next to impossible. He was trying to judge whether it was worth even making an attempt to sit up, when a woman walked into the room, carrying a tray. She set the tray on the table in front of the sofa, then knelt beside him on the floor._

_“You should probably try not to move much right away. You’re pretty banged up. I’ll help you wash down some pills and then we’ll see if you can sit up in a bit to have some tea.” Her voice was soft and smallish, and she smiled as she spoke. Her thick brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore no makeup. Her eyes were brown and her expression was sweet and kind - and made him feel like crying. He blinked at her, opened his mouth to thank her - but his voice was a croak._

_She turned to the tray she’d brought in and picked up a glass of water with a bendy straw in it. She shook a couple of pills from a bottle and put them in his mouth, then held the glass so he could sip the water, her hand behind his head to raise it an inch or two - which made him see flashes of colorful sparks. After a few drinks of water his throat was less dry and raspy and he managed a weak thank you. She smiled at him again and then told him to lie still and rest and she would be back in a few minutes. She disappeared through a door (he assumed, from the sounds she made, that it was a kitchen) and he closed his eyes, drifting into dark again, though he’d had no intention of doing so._

_The third time he woke, it was still light, but not quite as bright as it had been before. He carefully turned his head, noting that it didn’t fall off as he expected, and took in the portion of the room he could see. The small fireplace mantel across from the sofa was filled with candlesticks of all shapes and sizes, and a collection of odd knickknacks. The room was painted a soft green and frilly curtains hung at the window. It looked like a modern day interpretation of a grandmother’s house; everything soft and comfortable, stuffed with a life’s worth of little pieces of memorabilia, and books everywhere. It reminded him a bit of the den that he and David had shared...that thought brought tears to his eyes. He tried to take a deep breath and gasped instead at the pain in his ribs._

_She was there instantly beside him, speaking softly to him while he tried to breathe and keep from crying. The pain finally ebbed a bit and he managed to look at her, blinking the wetness from his eyes. She was pretty in a delicate way, her dark eyes dominating her face. She took a cloth and dabbed at the wetness on his cheeks, all the while cooing at him in her soft little voice. It was soothing; he gradually relaxed. He noted that she was not asking him questions, for which he was very grateful. She disappeared again briefly, returned with a tray from which lovely aromas rose that made his mouth water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten._

_As she sat spooning delicious soup into his mouth, she told him what had happened, filling in the blanks in his memory. He had stitches in various places on his body, and in one large cut over his eye. Apparently she was a doctor of some kind (hearing this caused him to raise his brows and made him very aware of the stitches over his right eye; he’d never have taken her for a doctor of_ any _kind) and knew how to stitch and wrap him, although he thought he heard her say something about dead people…_

_He studied her while she fed and chattered at him. Beneath her soft and fragile seeming exterior was something else, something which made it believable that she had waded into a fight and driven his attackers away. He sensed that there was a steel and ferocity inside her that she kept hidden, that she might not even be aware of herself. It was in the sureness of her movements, once in a while flashing behind the gentleness in her eyes. No matter what her insecurities might be, she was absolutely sure of what she knew and what she could and couldn’t do._

_Suddenly she had stopped and giggled. “I haven’t told you my name. I’m Molly. Molly Hooper.”_

_He had found himself smiling at her in return. “I’m Sean. Sean Redmon.”_

_“Well. It’s nice to meet you, Sean. Although I suppose the circumstances could have been better.” She giggled again as she said this, giving him the idea that little Molly Hooper just might have a very dark sense of humor hidden underneath her sweetness._

_After the soup was gone, she told him to rest again, which he was glad to do, and she folded herself up in the comfy chair across the room and lost herself in a book. He watched her read for a moment before he drifted off to sleep again, thinking that this was a woman he would like to know better._

_*****_

Mary stared out at the drizzle as she drove, deep in her thoughts. Something kept nagging at her about Sean and Sherlock, though she couldn’t quite grasp exactly what. It was constant enough, however, that she felt like she had to figure it out and she knew she needed Sherlock’s help to do it. She had this suspicion that Sherlock might know a bit more about this whole Sean and Molly business than anyone guessed. She knew Sherlock, of all people, couldn’t hold a grudge against her for long, but this distance between them also nagged at her. No one had had any idea that he was so deeply attached to Molly. Had they just not noticed, or had he gone out of his way to keep it hidden? And if he had hidden it, why? As far as she knew, everyone would have been delighted to see the two of them together. 

John was no use; he was awash in guilt over what he felt was his own neglect of Sherlock during the past months. Mary knew this was silly. John had been so busy with her and the baby and his job - and Sherlock could have come to visit them at any time. No, that was no one’s fault and feeling guilty was useless. 

She sighed. These men and their absurd ideas about “feelings” and communication. So many problems could be avoided if they’d just learn to accept how they felt and would try to _communicate_ clearly! They talked and talked - especially Sherlock - and never really said anything. And look what happened. Heartache and misery not only for them but for those around them. She really was getting a bit fed up with it all. 

*****

Molly and Sherlock were on the floor in front of the fire, tangled together, Sherlock’s shirt half unbuttoned, his hands sneaking their way down into Molly’s trousers, when they heard the door open downstairs. They both sat up quickly, Sherlock fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and trying to tuck it back in, Molly pushing her hair back and straightening her own shirt. Both of them looked up in surprise as Mary appeared in the doorway, damp and grinning like the Cheshire cat. 

Sherlock got to his feet and simply looked at her. Molly stayed on the floor, her arms clasped around her knees, grinning back at Mary. 

“Well. Sorry to interrupt…” Mary pulled off her gloves, stuffed them in her pockets, then unbuttoned her coat, shrugged it off and tossed it over the desk chair. “Sherlock, we need to talk, and Molly should probably be in on it.”

Molly’s grin vanished. She glanced at Sherlock, who was still staring silently at Mary, then slowly got to her feet. 

“I’ll make some tea,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Mary slowly walked towards John’s chair, passing closely in front of Sherlock. She was surprised when he stopped her by grasping her arm. 

“I know why you’re here, Mary. Although, I have to say, your timing could have been a bit better.” There was a glint in his eye that reassured her, letting her know that she had been forgiven for keeping Molly’s whereabouts a secret for so long and that their friendship was undamaged. Mary smiled at him and then wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. He only hesitated a few seconds before returning the hug just as tightly. 

“Friends, then?” She looked up at him with a grin.

“Friends. Always.” Sherlock patted her on the head, which made her laugh, and grinned back at her.

Mary was settling herself in John’s chair when Molly returned with three mugs of tea. Sherlock sat in his chair, and Molly took her place on the floor next to his legs. 

“Tell me what you know about Sean.” Mary wasted no time in getting to the main issue. 

Molly was silent. She knew this was about more than her relationship to Sean, and she was curious herself about the way Sherlock and Sean knew each other. 

Sherlock sipped his tea before he spoke. “About ten years ago, I was called in to consult about a case involving Sean. He had been arrested, accused of murdering his mother. He had told a story about coming to the house after his mother had called him, and finding his father holding his mother at gunpoint. He said his father shot his mother and dropped the gun on the floor before he left. Since Sean’s prints were on the gun, the police assumed that he was lying and that he was the shooter. Sean apparently was familiar with my work and told his partner, David, to contact me and ask for help.”

“Wait. How was Sean familiar with your work?” Mary frowned. “From the “net detective” stories in the press?”

“I assume so. I never asked. People hear about me in all sorts of odd ways. At any rate, the case was interesting, partly because of the family. Sean’s mother had inherited a great deal of money; his father was the inventor of a small device which revolutionised modern washing machines, which made him millions. Both of the parents had made good investments over the years which grew their wealth considerably. Ten years ago they were one of the wealthiest families in Britain. Their volatile relationship was a tabloid staple for a while, then suddenly fell out of favor when Sean came of age and began his own campaign to steal the limelight. He was quite the party animal for a few years, seen with both men and women all over the world who loved notoriety. Then he too fell out of favor with the tabloids when he deserted the party circuit and virtually disappeared. All at once they were back in the news again because of the murder.

“On the surface it seemed very cut and dried. Sean’s father had disappeared without a trace; there was speculation for a bit that Sean had murdered him also. Sean’s prints were all over the weapon, and he was found sitting in the room with his mother’s body, the gun in his hand. The fact that he had been the one to call 999 in the first place didn’t seem to matter. No one believed his story.” 

“Why did you doubt he was the murderer?” Mary was leaning forward in her chair, listening intently.

“Because it didn’t make sense. Sean was known to have a close relationship with his mother. He had a trust fund, he didn’t need money. If he was the shooter, why would he stay there with the body, holding the gun, while he called 999? He’s not stupid. There was a violent storm the night it happened. He could easily have slipped away, taking the murder weapon. The rain would have washed away any evidence outside that he’d been there. He’d only arrived a few minutes before and had touched nothing else, although naturally his fingerprints would certainly have been all over the house anyway. And given the nature of his parents relationship, which had been well known - at least the surface aspects of it - his version of events was just as plausible as that of the police. The real attraction, however, was tracking down the father. The man had simply vanished into thin air. How does a man like that - well known, involved in a number of business ventures, usually surrounded by many people - disappear so completely? The police had been unable to find any trace of him, and, according to the police, no one had any idea where he could have gone.”

Molly had been staring at her hands in her lap while Sherlock was speaking. She wondered again how Sean could have kept something like this from her. He had told her about David easily enough, and that had only been four years ago. 

“And you found him. Of course.” Mary sipped her tea, stared at Sherlock thoughtfully. “How well did you get to know Sean during the case?” 

“I only met him and talked to him once, really, when he was being held. I think I saw him again briefly at the courthouse during his father’s trial.”

“Sherlock...surely you’ve noticed - and had people mention - how much the two of you resemble each other.”

Sherlock grew very still, his eyes on Mary, but his mind obviously elsewhere. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Yes. It was...brought up ten years ago. Of course, there are a lot of people who look alike in the world. And we’re not identical, by any means. But I know the resemblance is very...strong.”

“And it obviously snagged your attention….because…?”

He didn’t answer for a minute, his gaze again distant, remembering, thinking. “Because it triggered the memory of something else I’d come across, many years ago. That and something that Sean said during the investigation.”

At Sherlock’s tone, Molly sat up, turned and looked up at him, frowning, worried. He glanced at her briefly, looked away. 

“It was purely by accident that I saw it. I’m not sure why it was hidden from me and, as a child you never think to question those things. Coupled with Sean’s story, it...pointed towards something…”

Molly placed her hand on Sherlock’s knee, staring up at him. Every cell in her body seemed to be tingling. 

“What, Sherlock? What did you find?”

He looked at her directly then, and it seemed to her that he was apologising, that he was asking her forgiveness in advance, telling her to brace herself for what was inevitably to come. 

His voice was very soft when he spoke. 

“My birth certificate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone jumps on me: in the case of multiple births, the time of birth is noted on the birth certificates. Otherwise, each child has his/her own separate registration and there is no other indication of more than one birth. Time of birth is not noted where there is only one baby. The time is there for multiple births only to determine exact age.
> 
> Characters belong to their respective creators, I own nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More about Sean and Sherlock and the mystery about them.

Sean finished his coffee and pushed himself away from the table. He knew Molly would be with Sherlock, probably at Baker Street. His only plan was to come clean about everything with Molly and ask for Sherlock’s help in resolving it all. He pulled on his jacket and closed the door. 

The rain had stopped completely. A few short hours before, he had been on his way out of the city, thinking that he might possibly never see Molly again. That idea had been intolerable; he loved Molly more than anything and not having her in his life anymore would be hell. He knew very well she wouldn’t hate him for not telling her everything. She would do her best to understand, to forgive him. The idea behind leaving had been more about Sherlock, however. He wasn’t at all sure that Sherlock would go for the idea of being dragged into an investigation of something that quite possibly could upset a great deal in his life. Sean had thought to pursue answers on his own, without getting Sherlock involved. If Sherlock decided that there should be no more investigating, Sean was sure Sherlock would find some way to stop it. That could become quite a sticky situation. 

By the time the taxi had pulled up in front of 221B, Sean had worried himself into a headache and a lump of lead in his stomach. 

*****

Molly sat on the floor staring up at Sherlock, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. _His_ _birth_ _certificate_ …

“I don’t understand. Why would anyone hide your birth certificate from you? What would possibly be on there that would cause...unless you were adopted…” Molly frowned, watching Sherlock’s face, which, as usual, gave away nothing. 

Mary, however, sat back in her chair, understanding. “The time of birth. There was a time of birth noted on the certificate, wasn’t there. Two notations, in fact.”

Sherlock nodded once, looked away, staring across the room at the door. He’d heard the car, heard the taxi door slam. He knew they were about to be joined by the other concerned party in this small mystery.

Sean appeared in the doorway, his eyes going directly to Sherlock. The look in Sherlock’s eyes told him what he needed to know. He slipped his jacket off as he entered the room, tossed it on the sofa. He pulled Mary’s coat off the desk chair and put it next to his, then pulled the chair over to join Molly, Sherlock, and Mary. 

Molly stood up when Sean entered, watched him as he rid himself of the jacket and grabbed the chair. She faced him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes wide, full of questions. Sean gave her a quick smile. Before he could sit, Molly stepped up to him and pulled him into a hug. Then she stepped back and silently perched herself on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, ready to listen. 

Sean glanced in turn at each of the three faces staring at him. “Tell me what you know.”

Molly and Mary looked to Sherlock, who took his time replying. He sipped his tea, looked Sean over, as if he could glean all the answers he needed with that one glance. When he finally spoke, his voice was oddly soft; there was none of the imperious tone he usually took when deducing someone. He spoke as if it was only he and Sean in the room. 

“I know that there were two times of birth noted on my birth certificate. Mine was noted first, a few minutes before a second birth. I know that your father, when he murdered your mother, claimed that you were not his son, but you were never given any indication that you were adopted. I know that your mother harbored some dark secret that your father knew, and which he held over her for much of their marriage, and which allowed him to get away with his abuse of her. I know that I was not adopted; I have had DNA tests done which prove that my parents are, in fact, my parents. And from the results of DNA tests run ten years ago on you, it would seem that...they are your parents also.”

Sean leaned forward in his chair, staring intently at Sherlock. “You’re saying...you’re saying that we are...that we _are_ actually...siblings. Brothers.” He sat back, ran his hands through his hair, his eyes darting around the room, his breath coming in gasps. He stood up knocking the chair back, and paced around the room, fists clenched. 

“Why? Why would they do that? Why would...we were twins, for God’s sake, why would they give me away?” His voice was choked, broken.

Sherlock watched Sean try to take in what he’d just learned. Outwardly Sherlock was calm, unaffected by it all. Inside he knew exactly what Sean was feeling. _This is my brother, my fraternal twin, who has been kept secret from me, kept away from me, for my entire life. He could have been my...friend, my companion…_ Suddenly, his breath hitched, his hands tremored. He pressed his lips together, set his mug of tea aside. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and stood quickly, nearly upsetting Molly off the arm of his chair. 

“Excuse me. I need...to check on something.” Sherlock strode through the kitchen, down the hall, into his bedroom and closed the door. 

Mary and Molly looked at each other and, without a word, stood and slipped to the sofa and the door, where their respective coats were, and quickly pulled them on. 

“We’re going to pop out for some snacks, back soon,” Mary said softly, practically pulling Molly out the door with her. 

Sean barely heard them go. He finally stopped pacing, made his way to the chair opposite Sherlock’s, and sank into it. His head fell onto the chair back and he closed his eyes, feeling the tears leak from the corners of them and not caring at all.Sherlock knew. He had known all along. Why hadn’t he said something? _What is it with people and their bloody fucking secrets!_

He knew he was as guilty as anyone else about keeping things hidden. While knowing that it would eventually all come back and bite him on the arse, he had kept things from Molly, from David - from everyone. Human nature, he thought. It’s bloody human nature to keep secrets. 

Especially from children. He thought about his mother, harbouring some terrible secret all those years, suffering for it. His father, doing the same, but using it against his mother and hating Sean for it. Sherlock’s parents _HIS parents, his real parents_ doing the same, only without the hate. What must it be like to keep something that large, that important, locked up inside for so many years? What kind of fear would one live with, day by day, holding something like that inside, dreading its discovery? No wonder the world was so screwed up. 

He heard a door open and close, footsteps down the hall, and sat up quickly, wiping his eyes. Sherlock entered the room, paused, then continued to his chair and sat. The two men looked at each other, Sean’s eyes full of emotion, Sherlock’s unreadable - except for being a bit more electric than usual.

They sat in silence for some minutes, each lost in his own thoughts, examining each other. Sean finally broke the silence, his expression serious. 

“So. How much older are you?” 

Sherlock’s mouth opened in surprise and he took a breath to answer - and began laughing. Sean joined him and the two of them laughed and giggled until tears ran down their faces and they were gasping for breath. Sean was holding his stomach, practically howling, Sherlock was bent forward, arms clasped across his middle, unable to breathe. Every time they thought it was over they’d look at each other and start up again. They both knew what it was, and welcomed it. All the tension and worry, all the emotional sludge of the past year - especially the past few hours - was being expelled. 

When the laughter finally died out, they each wiped the tears away, took deep breaths, both wearing similar smiles, gazing at each other. Sean sighed, asked the question.

“Well, brother. What do we do now?” 

“There are three people from whom we need to extract information. Two of them, I know, will be reluctant to part with it, and it will be...difficult for them. The other - I’m not sure how he’ll react, or even if he’ll tell us anything.”

“My...false father, you mean. We’re going to confront him with what we know? See what he says?”

“He’ll know most of the story, the actual facts of it. The rest will come from my... _our_...parents, the ‘why’ of all the secrecy. You’re certain you want to know the truth? All of it?”

“Absolutely. Don’t you think it’s time?”

Sherlock studied Sean for a moment. Despite the shock of what he’d just learned, Sean was willing to forge ahead seeking the truth. Whatever anguish he would experience, he considered worth going through in order to get the real story. Sherlock knew that what they were facing could cause heartbreak, not only for them but for their parents. His mother and father would never have given a child of theirs away willingly, he knew that much. And despite his sometimes cavalier treatment of them, despite their differences, Sherlock loved them; he had no desire to cause them any trouble or pain, but the truth was important. What was coming was going to be harsh, heavy going for everyone concerned - even Sean’s ‘false father’. It would affect everyone around them for some time.

“Why didn’t you tell Molly about your mother’s murder?”

The question surprised Sean; his eyes widened and he looked away, his hands picking absently at a thread on the arm of the chair. 

“You said you didn’t want her to feel sorry for you, but it was more than that.” Sherlock pressed, keeping his voice low and easy, not wanting to put Sean on the defensive.

“I would have told her eventually. I…”

“You also didn’t tell her we’d met before. Even after you found out she and I were...had known each other for years.”

Sean closed his eyes, frowning. This was the part he had dreaded, the questions from Sherlock he knew would come at some point.

“I didn’t find out that Molly even knew you until she and I had known each other a few weeks. She just...mentioned your name in connection with her work, I think. The opportunity was there right then to tell her, but...I don’t know how to explain this. She _knew_ you. And I wanted to know you, I wanted her to tell me all about you. But when she started to explain about, well, your non-relationship, I…” He faltered, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to know you anymore. In fact, I didn’t want _her_ to know you either. God, you were a cad, how could you do that to her?” Sean’s voice was pleading, rather than angry. He wanted an explanation, one that made sense, that would absolve his new-found brother and make him less of an unfeeling arse. 

Sherlock could feel his face redden. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, slowly dropped his head forward. He forced himself to listen to Sean, without interrupting or presenting any defense against his unforgivable behavior towards Molly all those years. 

Sean abruptly stopped. He watched as all Sherlock’s arrogance, his certainty, his visible self-confidence crumbled and disappeared, and simply couldn’t say any more. If he had needed proof that Sherlock loved Molly beyond reason, that he had indeed changed over the past year, seeing him falter and shrink in so much shame, willing to take whatever Sean was going to throw at him without defending himself was it. 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. It’s not my place to judge you for anything in the past. God knows I’ve got enough shit of my own to feel bad about. I know you love her. And I can see how happy she is now; obviously you’ve changed enough to make that happen.” 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock finally raised his head, his reddened eyes holding Sean’s. 

“I do love Molly. More than...more than anyone could understand. I think I always have. I’ve spent so many years wrapping myself up in a shell, deadening feelings...it took me forever to understand that you can’t pick which feelings get shut down; they’re all entangled and once you start shutting them down, they all go, and you lose touch with...everything. It makes you capable of rationalising all sorts of incredibly stupid behavior. It’s not an excuse; it’s not even a good reason, really, but...that’s what was happening. It took losing Molly to get me to see it for what it was. There’s nothing you or anyone else could say to me that I haven’t already said to myself.”

It was Sean’s turn to be shamefaced. “I get it, Sherlock, I really do. I meant it, I have no right to judge you or anything you did. Let’s just...let’s just say we’re can both be quite stupid for such intelligent men, and let it go.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked in a half smile, and he nodded once in agreement. “Thank goodness we don’t have to try and hide our stupidity from Molly; she’s already quite aware of it.” 

Sean grinned at Sherlock, a brief zing of exhilaration sweeping through him at the thought that this extraordinary man was his brother, that the two of them would work together to solve this odd little mystery that swirled around them.

It was back to business immediately. “You haven’t said why you didn’t tell Molly about your parents.”

“I spent many years introducing myself as Sean-The-Man-Whose-Father-Shot-His-Mother. I carried it around with me like this huge shit-filled haversack tied over my shoulder. Being accused and arrested, going through the trial, living with the aftermath...When I met Molly, as I got to know her, all that began to fade, began to evaporate. It was as if she was lifting it from my shoulders, piece by piece, not even aware of what she was doing for me. I meant to tell her, I did. I tried. I just...I couldn’t bring all that into our relationship yet. I just couldn’t.” 

Sherlock had opened his mouth to ask another question when they heard the door open downstairs, and Mary and Molly clomping up the stairs - and then a third pair of feet behind them, whose owner seemed to be singing, very off key, a child’s nursery rhyme. 

“Look who we found on the street!” Molly bubbled at them, as she pulled off her coat and hung it on the door. Behind her was Mary, carrying a large sack and beaming, and behind Mary was John, with Willa tucked into her sling against his chest.

Molly and Mary disappeared into the kitchen with the delicious smelling sack, and John greeted Sherlock and Sean, happily bobbing like a cork to keep Willa happy. Willa cooed and Sean immediately asked to hold her. John awkwardly pulled her out of the sling, getting her leg caught, finally handing her over to Sean, who danced around the room with her held against his chest. 

Sherlock watched all of this trying his best to look sardonic and bored, and failing completely. Molly caught his eye and came to him, leaning over and kissing him sweetly. He trailed his fingers down her arm, caught her small hand in his, giving her a look that held her in place - one that held promises that made her tremble and her face grow warm. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is much more to come, hopefully soon. My kitty, Rose, killed my laptop this afternoon, so I'm stuck using the desktop - which is lovely (and I do adore it) but it's somewhat tiring to write on. I'm trusting the Fanfic Fairies to help me with this so there won't be a delay in posting the rest! Please send Good Thoughts to the Fanfic Fairies (and me!) Kitty Rose is not being punished, as she didn't mean to kill the laptop. Just thought I'd mention that.
> 
> Please review and comment and leave tasty bits of whatever-you-please in the comments box below! Thank you, hugs and kisses from Bedlam. :)


	13. Chapter 13

Sorry, this isn't a chapter. I just wanted to let everyone know that I haven't abandoned this or my other two WIPs. Life has conspired to keep me temporarily preoccupied - deconstruction and reconstruction inside my house, dealing with a pregnant kitty, an ailing son, a totally discombobulated hubby, and various other crises, have somewhat interfered with what I really want and need to do, which is write. However, I do see light at the end of this particularly frustrating tunnel and hopefully will be updating within a week. Good thoughts for my poor torn apart house, my poor ready-to-pop kitty, and the other mind-numbing situations (as well as a little not-so-gentle nudge to the Crisis Intervention Fairies who seem to be lying down on the job lately!) would be greatly appreciated, so that we can get this show back on the road. Thank you ever so much for your patience and for your lovely support! Back soon. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the mystery solved...

A tiny niggling voice in Molly’s head was whining at her not to trust this, not to fall for all this warmth and happiness that occasionally threatened to make her weep. Despite the problems that still cried out to be solved, she was content, truly content for the first time in her life. Lying with her head on Sherlock’s chest, replete, exhausted, she sighed and a little “hmph” of protest at the sly voice in her head escaped her. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock, of course, didn’t miss it. “What’s the matter?”

His voice was husky with sleep and satisfaction, and it rumbled in Molly’s ear, vibrated through her entire body. 

“Nothing.” She smiled sleepily, rubbed her nose against his chest, snuggled even closer. She loved the smell of him after sex, the way the sweetness of his skin mellowed more and mingled with her own scent. 

He hmmed again and then was silent as his breathing evened and slowed and he drifted into sleep. Molly soon followed him into dreamland, peacefully at home with their bodies entwined. 

*****

Sean was still reeling. Information overload, anticipation, happiness tinged with trepidation, simple excitement - it all had him jittery and agitated. It was late; he needed to sleep, but there was no way he would be able to wind down for a good while yet. He needed activity for his body, distraction for his mind. 

And Molly was...elsewhere. It was just starting to sink in how much he had relied on her being there, accessible, all the time. Their lives had been continuously synced for a year. He had never been so intimately linked with anyone before. 

Not even David. 

Four years and he still felt that painful pressure in his chest when he thought about his partner, the man he thought he would be with for the rest of his life. The man who had _changed_ him forever. He’d been so lost, so broken when Molly rescued him. She still had no idea how much she had repaired in him, how her sweetness had kept him from sinking completely into oblivion. He had opened to her in ways he had never opened to anyone and she had done the same with him. They were _simpatico_ \- a word he’d never truly understood until she came along. 

Sean knew Molly wasn’t going to completely disappear. Now that he knew who he was, now that Sherlock had revealed the truth to him, now that Sherlock would be a part of his life, he knew Molly would be there also. But not the way she had been before. A part of him wanted to be jealous, much the way Sherlock must have been when he learned about her relationship with Sean. But he was too happy for her to be jealous. If anyone deserved to have what she wanted, it was Molly. 

He finally grabbed his jacket and took the lift to the lobby, strode out the door and into the foggy night. A walk and some air would help. It wouldn’t fix his dread of loneliness, but it might wear him down so he could sleep.

*****

It was weeks after the application was filed that they received permission for the prison visit. During the drive to the prison, Sherlock was grim and silent. Sean was pale and nervous, nearly spilling the paper cup of coffee he held. He finally set the cup in the holder, and spent the rest of the ride staring out the window. 

There was no plan. They would simply ask Edgar Redmon what had happened, and trust that either his conscience or the threat of additional charges for the kidnapping of a baby - and the addition of even harsher penalties - would make him tell them the truth. 

It had been ten years since Sean had last seen the man he’d thought was his father. He’d had no wish ever to see him again. In fact, the thought made him queasy. After the murder trial, he had thought he was done with the man forever. But now he had Sherlock beside him. Both he and his brother deserved to know what had happened. 

At the trial Edgar Redmon had appeared arrogant and surly, totally without remorse. When he had been discovered hiding in a tiny house in a small town in Indiana, in the U.S., he was smirking and belligerent as he was led out in handcuffs. When he spotted Sherlock standing by the police car, he had inexplicably begun to laugh, and had spit at Sherlock as he passed him.

Ten years in prison had not been kind to Edgar Redmon. He had been a large, burly man. He still had his barrel chest, but his arms were now thin and pale, the muscle wasted away. He was led into the cold concrete room in shackles, still considered a class A prisoner. One look in his eyes and it was easy to see why. Prison life had nurtured his malevolence, and it seethed in his eyes like a snake-filled morass. His belligerent, remorseless attitude at the trial had turned inward and produced a foul aura around him, his own personal, evil miasma. 

He took one look at Sherlock and Sean sitting together at the table and bent double with laughter, which ended in a rheumy coughing fit. The look on his face when he sat across from them was pure hatred.

Sean looked away, closed his eyes. He didn’t know if he could sit through this. Sherlock simply stared back at Edgar, his face expressionless, unreadable. 

“I know why you’re here, the both of you.” Edgar chuckled, looking back and forth between Sherlock and Sean. “What are the odds, eh? That the two of you would find each other after all?”

“Given that we were both raised in London, the odds were actually fairly good. You should have taken him out of the country. To Indiana, perhaps.” Sherlock smiled. 

Edgar’s grin vanished, a lupine snarl taking its place. “Both of you should have been tossed in the Thames when you were born. What a waste of air you are. Fucking nancy boys, good for nothing. Useless tripe.”

“Your... _real_...son, will - of course - never turn out the way we did, will he,” Sherlock said softly, and reached into his coat to pull out a small packet. This he slid across the table to rest in front of Edgar, who eyed it suspiciously. “Go on. Open it. I’m sure you’ll find the contents fascinating.”

Edgar shot a suspicious look at Sherlock, then gingerly touched the paper with his fingertips. He finally picked up the packet and opened it, pulling out a small stack of photos and dropping them on the table. 

The change in his demeanor was both sudden and startling as he stared at the photos. Instead of the snarling wolf, he melted into an old man, beaten down, broken, in pain. It was as if something ruptured him, and he had rapidly deflated. He spoke without looking up at Sherlock, simply touching the pictures one by one, over and over. 

“Wh...how did you get these?” Edgar’s voice was a hoarse whisper. 

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, as he watched the old man’s reaction closely. His voice was still soft when he spoke again. 

“It wasn’t difficult to track down the young woman you were with in the States. The boy was born approximately eight months after you were arrested. You were listed as the father on his birth certificate. I took the liberty of having DNA tests run to prove paternity. He is definitely your son.” 

The photos were of a woman in her middle twenties through her middle thirties, a series taken over ten years, with a child. The first few were of her and the child as a baby, and progressed until the last one, which showed the boy about ten years old. In the last picture he grinned at the camera, his mother’s hand on his shoulder. 

Edgar’s hands were shaking as he picked up the last photo and studied it. “What do you want?” he rasped. 

Sherlock leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, staring at Edgar intensely. 

“We want information. In exchange for this information, I can arrange for visits with your son and his mother, and a more...comfortable...existence for you here. You will tell us the entire story of Sean’s abduction. It’s that simple.” 

Edgar turned watery eyes to Sherlock, then looked away, seeming to stare at nothing across the small concrete block room. Still holding the picture of his son at ten years old, he cleared his throat and started to speak, his voice rough and hoarse with emotion. 

When Sherlock brought out the packet of photos, Sean’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He had had no clue what Sherlock was planning; he had assumed that they would simply demand answers and, possibly, threaten Edgar until he told them something. Sean’s eyes now darted back and forth between Sherlock and Edgar, his posture stiff and straight in his chair, almost holding his breath. As Edgar began to speak, Sean’s gaze finally fixed on him. Sean’s hatred and discomfort shifted to the background to make room for suspense.

“My wife and I had tried for years to have a child. When she was finally able to get pregnant...it was rough. The baby came early. It only lived a few hours. A boy. I didn’t think Maggie was going to make it after. She was...not herself. She wanted that baby so much. She was in hospital for ten days, it had been that tough on her.” Edgar paused, stared down at the photo still clutched in his hand, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted the baby too. It was hard on both of us.”

Edgar paused for a long moment. He cleared his throat again, took a deep breath, then continued.

“We were on our way out of the hospital, when Maggie decided to visit the nursery. I thought it was just...part of her grief, you know, wanting to look at all the newborns. I went to get a coffee and when I came back she was gone. I was going to start looking for her, but when I looked up, I saw her through the window. She had put on a cap and a nurse’s gown, you know those things they wear with the babies. She had a breathing mask on. I don’t know how she managed to get in. I didn’t see any of the other nurses. There were two little boy babies in there, twins, and she had picked up one of them and was sort of...rocking it back and forth in her arms. Then she just walked through the door into the back room. Next thing I knew she was back in the hall with me, only she had...she had brought out one of the twin boys, all bundled up in a blanket. She didn’t even look at me, just headed to the door. I was afraid to say anything. She wasn’t in her right mind. I was scared she would be arrested, that we would both be arrested. Nobody stopped us.”

Sherlock slowly sat back in his seat. Relief warred with outrage inside him. Relief that his parents had, indeed, not given Sean away. Outrage at the audacity and thoughtlessness of Maggie Redmon. He understood grief. He knew how it could derange a person, make them capable of things they might not ordinarily do. But it was hard to forgive someone who could do something this callous, who could put other parents through what she had put his through simply because she wanted a baby. It was incredible that she couldn’t identify with the heartbreak and anguish she would most certainly cause by her actions. 

“When we got home, I asked her. I said, ‘What are you doing, woman, you can’t just take a baby like that!’ And she said to me, ‘They had two. It wasn’t fair. They can do without this one.’ There was no reasoning with her. I kept waiting for the police to show up at our door, but they never came. There wasn’t even anything on the news or in the papers about the baby being gone. So we took the baby and left the country for a while. We came up with this story that she had had the baby while we were gone. Nobody ever questioned it. I couldn’t believe it was so simple.”

There was a long silence. Sean had risen from his seat and now stood leaning against the wall, his back to both Sherlock and Edgar. 

After a while, Sherlock leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table, hands clasped. “What happened with you and Maggie? This was the secret you held over her all those years, isn’t it, that she had kidnapped the baby.”

Edgar finally looked at Sherlock, a bit of hardness coming back into his expression.

“She changed. Everything in her life was about that baby. She had no time for me, for friends, for...anything. She wanted nothing to do with me at all. It was like everyone and everything else had just stopped existing for her. I couldn’t get through to her. And then after he got older...I knew there was something wrong with him. He wasn’t like other boys. Trust her to pick one that was deficient.” The contempt and disdain in his voice was laced with acid, a hatred that ran deep into the core of him. “I tried. God knows I tried everything. For her, for him. It was no good. They were in it together and I was outside. I put up with her rejection, his perversion…”

At this Sean whirled around and came back to the table, leaning over it, his face twisted into an expression as ugly as Edgar’s. 

“You were a monster!” Sean yelled. “You beat her! You beat me, humiliated me every chance you got! You couldn’t just walk away and leave us alone, you had to punish us, demean us, you bloody twisted son of a bitch!” 

Sean grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. Sherlock reach over and put his hand on Sean’s arm, to get his attention, to try and pull his focus away from Edgar. Sean was shaking with rage, and looked likely to vault over the table and put his hands around Edgar’s throat, but he shook off Sherlock’s touch and turned away, stalking back to his place by the wall, running his hands through his hair. 

“I kept her secret for her!” Edgar yelled back. “All those years and I never told a soul! She owed me for that but did she ever pay up? No! She treated me like I was...dirty or something! Like I was less than she was, less than you!” 

The door opened and a guard stepped into the room, then another guard. Sherlock looked at them, held up his hand.

“It’s all right,” he said calmly. “Just a little argument.” He stared at the two guards until they left the room again, though they didn’t pull the door all the way shut. 

Edgar remained silent. He knew not to anger the guards. 

Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He went to Sean and gently put a hand on Sean’s shoulder, urging him towards the door. After Sean had gone through, Sherlock turned to Edgar. 

“I may have a few more questions. You can keep the photos. We’ll be in touch.” He smirked and walked through the door. 

Sean was waiting outside, pale and shaken. He turned to Sherlock before they got into the car. 

“How did you know? About his son?”

Sherlock grinned at Sean. “Oh, there is no son. That child is the woman’s nephew and those are just pictures she had taken with him over the years. I would have gotten other children to pose as the son. The nephew was convenient, the right age. I contacted her and asked her help to set up the ruse and she sent me copies of the photos. She hates Edgar. He lied to her and stole a good deal of money from her.” 

Sean stared at Sherlock and then began to laugh. He laughed on and off all the way back to Baker Street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies again for the long delay in updating. There shouldn't be any more lengthy gaps in updates. I am now the proud grandparent of four new kitty babies, all of whom are doing well. Mama kitty is a very good parent, and although she's freaked us out by moving the babies elsewhere in the bedroom (at 5 in the morning; the babies are very loud squealers!), out of their comfy basket, everyone is happy for the time being. Work continues on the house, but other crises are resolved and I now have time to write. My thanks for your patience and support, and many more thanks, hugs, and fond hair fluffles for the kind words and good wishes over the past few weeks!
> 
> As usual, this work is not for profit, I don't own the characters, they belong to Moffat/Gatiss/Doyle, etc.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock leaned against the headboard of the bed, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed. His computer was open on his lap but he was only partially paying attention to the article on the screen. He was listening to Molly as she moved about in the bathroom, occasionally humming a little tune. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her, naked and damp from her bath, and his pulse would quicken. 

The door opened and Molly stepped into the room, her nude body still golden brown from her year in the sun, her hair loose down her back nearly to her waist. Her brush was in her hand and she stopped in front of the mirror to brush her hair. He watched her as she pulled her hair over one shoulder, holding the thick mass near the ends and brushing it in sections upward until she was able to draw the brush all the way down from her scalp with no tangles to catch the brush bristles. Occasionally she would glance at his reflection in the mirror, and he would quickly look down at the laptop, pretending to still be reading. It was a little game they played, watching each other secretly while pretending to do something else. 

He finally closed the laptop and set it aside on the nightstand, watching her openly, his eyes greedily taking in every inch of her small body. He would never get used to how perfect she was. The sight of her tiny waist flaring into her small rounded hips sent ripples of pleasure through him, tightening his gut, opening a longing in him that ripened into heat and desire.

“Molly…” His voice was low and slightly hoarse. “Dance for me.” 

Molly put down her brush, and there was a slight impishness in her smile when she glanced at his reflection in the mirror. She turned, and began to hum a slow, lilting, exotic melody. As she stepped towards the bed, she raised her arms over her head, and her shoulders and chest lifted and thrust forward slightly, then moved back while her belly and hips moved forward in turn. It was as though her entire torso was rippling, very slowly, from the shoulders down to her thighs, with every step. It was hypnotic and beautifully enticing. Her lashes were lowered, and she began to turn her body very slightly to the side with each step, while she rippled towards him.

It was unlike anything he had ever imagined he would be watching her do - exciting, erotic, even a little frightening with the depth of arousal he felt. Molly reached the bed, and still humming her little song, still enticingly undulating her body, moved to straddle his hips. Sherlock put his hands on on the sides of her thighs, feeling the muscles tense and relax with her movement. Her skin was satin smooth, warm under his fingers as he slid them up her legs, cupped her slowly circling arse. His cock pulsed and a soft moan escaped him.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, still undulating, and leaned forward, offering her breasts to his mouth, and his lips closed around a nipple, tugging. Molly closed her eyes, made a soft sound in her throat, interrupting her humming, then suddenly pulled away from Sherlock’s questing lips. She reached down and plucked at the top button on his shirt, murmuring huskily, “Take this off.”

Sherlock quickly went to work on the buttons and stripped the shirt off, tossed it carelessly to the floor. Molly meanwhile turned towards his feet, still straddling him, and leaned to pull off his shoes and socks, tossed them off the foot of the bed, offering Sherlock a lovely view of her bottom and the damp darkness between her thighs. Then she turned again and deftly undid his trousers, glancing up at him underneath her lashes. Sherlock was flushed, breathing in quick gasps, his eyes roaming over her body as if he was starving and she was a lavish meal placed in front of him. He lifted his hips and she pulled his pants and trousers down to his thighs. His cock sprang up towards his belly and, without bothering to finish removing the rest of his clothes, she grasped and slowly stroked him, eliciting another deep moan. 

Molly leaned down and gave his cock a quick swipe of her tongue, from root to head, but Sherlock groaned and gently pushed her away. 

“Not yet,” he panted. “I want to...I’m too close…” He pulled her up and kissed her, then suddenly grasped her waist and flipped her over, climbed on top of her, roughly kneeing her legs apart. Molly’s gasp of surprise was mixed with a short breathless laugh, and then he was pushing inside her, filling her up, the pressure and stretch tugging on the hood of her clit, making her moan. He gasped against her shoulder and began to move, every thrust deeper and harder. Molly’s teeth scraped his shoulder and as her nails dug into the skin of his back, he made a sound in his throat between a whimper and a growl. Her body stiffened under him and she wailed his name once as she came, hard, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a vise, and then he was shuddering as he poured into her. 

They lay, trembling and gasping, until suddenly Molly giggled. Sherlock raised his head and looked down at her, frowning, which only made her giggle more. 

“I’m sorry,” she managed to gasp out. “Sometimes it’s just so…” She stopped and closed her eyes, trying to breathe. Sherlock leaned his forehead against hers and sighed deeply.

“I know,” he breathed, “I know.” 

*****

Mycroft made his way up the stairs at Baker Street, trying to relax. Since Sherlock’s call that morning (“Yes, Mycroft, it’s important. It’s...urgent.”) he had been trying to dispel the small knot that kept trying to form in his gut. Urgent from Sherlock was never good. He refused to speculate on what could be wrong this time, but his body kept trying to worry about it. 

After Sherlock’s episode with Magnussen, the subsequent fallout having been resolved, and the Moriarty broadcast dealt with, Sherlock had insisted that surveillance in his flat be removed. There were no longer cameras in 221B, although Mycroft still had men watching Sherlock closely. Mycroft was aware that Molly Hooper was once again in his brother’s life. There had been a year in which nothing much seemed to happen with Sherlock. His brother had rarely left the flat during that year, and there were no “incidents” that required Mycroft’s attention. He had got used to only having the machinations of the British government to worry about while his little brother was, to all appearances, safely at home. After a month or so of quiet, he had barely spared a thought for Sherlock. He had always considered himself Sherlock’s “caretaker”; he loved his brother, but it was an exhausting and time consuming job. This respite had been quite welcome. He actually dared to hope his little brother had finally grown up.

Now he was summoned to Baker Street, urgently, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the quiet interlude had been shot to hell. He was sure Miss Hooper’s return had something to do with it. Sherlock and women were never a good mix. 

He sighed as he reached the top of the stairs and paused on the landing to collect himself. 

As Mycroft strode through the door, he spied Sherlock standing by the window looking out. He seemed healthy enough; he had gained a few pounds, stood erect with his hands in his pockets. There was nothing in his posture to suggest anything wrong. The only glitch was that he was not in his usual attire. Instead of his expensive suit, he was wearing jeans - which, though they were not faded and fit him nicely, were not the type of clothing Sherlock was prone to wearing. The jeans were paired with a (very expensive) black cashmere V-necked jumper, sans shirt.

“Sherlock, I hope whatever this is can be resolved quickly, I have…” 

The figure at the window turned and Mycroft stopped. Stopped and blinked rapidly, and stared. This was _not_ Sherlock...but it _was_.

The same face, but relaxed, pleasant expression. The same hair, perhap a touch shorter. The same build, but healthier. 

Green eyes. Eyes the color of dark jade. Tinted contact lenses, perhaps?

“Close your mouth, Mycroft. You look like a baby bird waiting to be fed.” Sherlock’s mocking voice came from his left, and Mycroft slowly turned his head to find his younger brother standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked back and forth between Sherlock and the man standing at the window, closed his mouth and tried to look stern.

“Explain.” 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock, planted his umbrella in front of him with both hands on the handle. _No nonsense. I want an explanation._

“Have a seat, Mycroft. I have a story to tell you and we may as well be comfortable.”

As Sherlock walked to his chair and sat, Molly Hooper came through from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with teapot and cups. She set the tray on the desk and began pouring. The man at the window went and sat in the chair by the desk, smiling up at Molly. 

Mycroft slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite Sherlock’s, still glancing back and forth between the stranger who looked like Sherlock and Sherlock himself.

Sherlock waited until Molly had given everyone a cup and taken one for herself. She then seated herself on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, where Sherlock placed a hand on her thigh possessively. Mycroft noted this with a twinge in his gut. 

_So. Apparently the situation with Miss Hooper has taken a new turn._

*****

Mycroft listened to Sherlock’s story, occasionally glancing at the new one - Sean. His alarm grew exponentially with each sentence Sherlock uttered. When Sherlock explained that DNA tests had been run, that there was no doubt that this was, indeed, their brother, he closed his eyes briefly, and then asked the only question that needed to be asked at this point.

“Have you told our parents yet?”

Sherlock paused and took a sip of his tea. “Not yet. We’re to pay them a visit tomorrow. I would...like you to be present, if possible.”

Mycroft sighed. It would require some juggling of appointments…

“Of course. What time shall I send the car?” 

That was it, then. They had acquired a new family member, one that had been stolen from them many years ago, and tomorrow they would unleash this devastating information on their parents and descend into the emotional hell that would ensue. 

Why couldn’t it have been something simple, like...relapse into drug use?

Mycroft rose from his chair and walked to the man sitting at the desk. _His brother_. 

“Well then. Welcome back...to the family. Such as it is.” He held out his hand to Sean.

Sean rose and looked steadily back at Mycroft, took the offered hand, then said in Sherlock’s voice, “Thank you. It’s good to have a family to come back to.”

Mycroft blinked, and suddenly the reality overcame him and he nearly gasped. He held Sean’s hand, stared into those deep green eyes, and was momentarily at a loss. _Sherlock’s twin. Another little brother._ The cynic in him wanted to see this as just another problem, twice the trouble to be dealt with, twice the shenanigans to exasperate him. But as he looked at Sean, along with the intelligence and perception evident there, he saw something else. This man had been raised differently, had _lived_ differently from Sherlock. Apparently he had been through hell - and had come out of it _changed_. There was a steadiness there, a depth of which he knew Sherlock was fully capable, but had not yet reached. Empathy. An understanding of other people that Sherlock often missed. 

And Sean was not the least bit intimidated by the British Government.

Mycroft confronted in himself a wave of feeling the likes of which he had rarely encountered, which threatened to completely overcome his steely, hard-won reserve and reduce him to one of those emotional wrecks he abhorred. He abruptly let go of Sean’s hand, coughed once, and turned to Sherlock, who was still sitting with his hand on Miss Hooper’s leg, looking up at her with what could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. 

Obviously, both Miss Hooper and this new brother had already exercised their influence on Sherlock. He had no idea whether or not this boded well or ill.

“I will see you all tomorrow morning.” And with that, he swung his umbrella up to his shoulder and disappeared through the door and down the stairs, closing the front door firmly. 

Sean strode to John’s chair and flopped into it, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement, relief, and other feelings he had yet to identify. He looked at Molly and Sherlock in turn, and all he said was “Wow.”

*****

Mycroft paced in front of the fire, considering the ramifications of this new development. He had, of course, immediately begun his own investigation into this new brother, and so far had turned up only the exact information that Sherlock had given him. 

Try as he might, he could come up with no memories of that time that would help shed any light on the situation. He had been only seven, after all, when Sherlock was born. Apart from excitement over the new baby in the home, his only memories were of Mummy being exhausted and constantly being reminded of the need for quiet so that she and the baby could rest. There was no unusual upset, no sense of oddness that he could detect in his memories of his parents behaviour. If they had indeed had a child stolen from them, why had everything continued at home as though nothing had happened? Surely the police would have investigated, which should have left records of the incident, but there were no police reports, no mentions in any newspapers. Even the hospital, despite the listing of the times of two births on Sherlock’s birth certificate, had no record of a baby missing. 

He had no wish to upset his parents, but he was certainly looking forward to an explanation. 

 


End file.
